
r^S5^^^2^5^ Wk 



SONGS, 



LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 



BY 



JOHN BOYLE 0'REILLY„ 



Seventh Edition. 



BOSTOIT: 
THE PILOT PUBLISHING COMPAN'Y, 

1890. 



CopvRiGnT, 1880, 
By Joius BovLE O'Reilly. 



c < « «, 



TO 

My Dear Wife, 

WHOSE RARE AND LOVING JUDGMENT HAS BEEN A STANDARD 
I HAVE TRIED TO REACH, 

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 



292134 



Songs, Legends, and Ballads. 



CONTENTS. 



Pagk. 

The Rainbow's Treasure i 

At Best 3 

Macarius the Monk 4 

The Trial of the Gods 7 

The Shadow 11 

The Value of Gold 12 

Peace and Pain 14 

A Seed 15 

Chunder Ali's Wife 16 

A Kiss 19 

Bone and Sinew and Brain 20 

To-Day 23 

My Native Land 25 

There is Blood on the Earth 27 

The Ride of Collins Graves 29 

Star-Gazing 33 

Dolores 37 

Love, and Be Wise 39 

Resurgite! — June, 1877 41 

Rules of the Road .44 

Forever 46 

The Loving Cup of the Papyrus 48 

The Treasure of Abram 51 

The Last of the Narwhale . . . . . . • 58 

Dying in Harness C7 

Golu 70 

Under the River 72 

Hidden Sins 73 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PvGF.. 

Unspoken Words 75 

The Poison Flower 77 

My Mother's Memory 79 

The Old School Clock ........ So 

Mary S3 

Legend of the Llessed Virgin S5 

The Loss of the Emigrants £S 

Withered Snowdrops 91 

Wail of Two Cities 94 

The Fishermen of Wexford 97 

The Feast of the Gael 104 

At Fredericksburg. — Dec. 13, 1S62 109 

The Priests of Ireland 116 

Released — January, 1878 123 

The Patriot's Grave 127 

John Mitchel 135 

A Nation's Test 138 

The Flying Dutchman 149 

Uncle Ned's Tales — 

An Old Dragoon's Story 161 

How the Flag was Saved iSo 

Haunted ey Tigers 19S 

Western Australia 215 

The Dukite Snake 21S 

The Monster Diamond 22S 

The Dog Guard 237 

The Amber Whale 247 

The King of the Vasse 271 



SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE RAINBOW'S TREASURE. 

XT 7'HERE the foot of the rainbow meets the 
^ field, 

And the grass resplendent glows, 
The earth will a precious treasure yield, 

So the olden story goes. 
In a crystal cup are the diamonds piled 

For him who can swiftly chase 
Over torrent and desert and precipice wild, 

To the rainbow's wandering base. 

There were two in the field at work, one day, 

Two brothers, who blithely sung, 
When across their valley's deep-winding way 

The glorious arch was flung 1 



2 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And one saw naught but a sign of rain, 
And feared for his sheaves unbound ; 

And one is away, over mountain and plain, 
Till the mystical treasure is found I 

Through forest and stream, in a blissful dream. 

The rainbow lured him on ; 
With a siren's guile it loitered awhile, 

Then leagues away was gone. 
Over brake and brier he followed fleet ; 

The people scoffed as he passed ; 
But in thirst and heat, and with wounded feet. 

He nears the prize at last. 

It is closer and closer — he wins the race — 

One strain for the goal in sight : 
Its radiance falls on his yearning face — 

The blended colors unite ! 
He laves his brow in the iris beam — 

He reaches Ah woe I the sound 

From the misty gulf where he ends his dream. 

And the crystal cup is found ! 



AT BEST. 



'Tis the old, old story : one man will read 

His lesson of toil in the sky ; 
While another is blind to the present need, 

But sees with the spirit's eye. 
You may grind their souls in the self-same mill, 

You may bind them, heart and brow ; 
But the poet will follow the rainbow still, 

And his brother will follow the plough. 



AT BEST. 



T 



HE faithful helm commands the keel. 
From port to port fair breezes blow ; 
But the ship must sail the convex sea. 
Nor may she straighter go. 



So, man to man ; in fair accord. 

On thought and will, the winds may wait ; 
But the world will bend the passing word. 

Though its shortest course be straight. 



SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be : 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 



MACARIUS THE MONK. 

TN the old days, while yet the Church was 

young, 
And men believed that praise of God was sung 
In curbing self as well as singing psalms, 
There lived a monk, Macarius by name, 
A holy man, to whom the faithful came 
With hungry hearts to hear the wondrous TTord. 
In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms, 
He dwelt within the desert : from the marsh 
lie drank the brackish water, and his food 
Was dates and roots, — and all his rule was harsh, 
For pampered flesh in those days warred with 

go(jd. 



MACARIUS THE MONK. 5 

From those who came in scores a few there were 

Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer, 

And these remained and took the hermit's vow. 

A dozen saints there grew to be ; and now 

Macarius, happy, lived in larger care. 

He taught his brethren all the lore he knew, 

And as they learned, his pious rigors grew. 

His whole intent was on the spirit's goal : 

He taught them silence — words disturb the soul : 

He warned of joys, and bade them pray for 

sorrow. 
And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow 
To know that human life alone was given 
To prove the souls of those who merit heaven ; 
He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers, 
And die to self, to live and work for others. 
"For so," he said, "we save our love and labors. 
And each one gives his own and takes his 

neighbor's." 

Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard, 
Ele prayed for fruitful &oil to hold the Word. 



6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

One day, beside the marsh they labored long, — 
For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song, — 
And when the cruel sun made hot the sand, 
And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand 
Tormenting stung, a passing traveller stood 
And watched the workers by the reeking flood. 
Macarius, nigh, with heat and toil was faint ; 
The traveller saw, and to the suffering saint 
A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw. 
Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view, 
A generous cluster, bursting-rich with wine. 
Macarius longed to taste. "The fruit is mine," 
He said, and sighed ; "but I, who daily teach, 
Feel now the bond to practise as I preach." 
He gave the cluster to the nearest one. 
And with his heavy toil went patient on. 

As one athirst will greet a flowing brim. 
The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him 
Who took the gift ; but in the yearning eye 
Eose brighter light : to one whose lip was dry 
He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade. 



THE TRIAL OF THE GODS. 7 

And he who took, unknown to any other, 
The sweet refreshment handed to a brother. 
And so, from each to each, till round was made 
The ch'cuit wholly — when the grapes at last, 
Untouched and tempting, to Macarius passed. 

''Now God be thanked !" he cried, and ceased his 

toil ; 
"The seed was good, but better was the soil. 
My brothers, join with me to bless the day." 
But, ere they knelt, he threw the grapes away. 



THE TRIAL OF THE GODS. 

" Ox a regular division of the [Roman] Senate, Jupiter was 
condemned and degraded by the sense of a very large major- 
ity." — Gibbon'' s Decline and Fall. 

"^TEVER nobler was the Senate, 

Never grander the debate : 
Rome's old gods are on their trial 
By the judges of the state ! 



8 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND, BALLADS. 

Torn by warring creeds, the Fathers 
Urge to-day the question home — 

" Whether Jupiter or Jesus 

Shall be God henceforth in Rome?" 

Lo, the scene ! In Jove's own temple, 

As of old, the Fathers meet; 
Through the porch, to hear the speechesj 

Press the people from the street. 
Pontiffs, rich with purple vesture, 

Pass from senate chair to chair ; 
Learned augurs, still as statues — 

Voiceless statues, too — are there; 
Vestal virgins, white with terror, 

Mutely asking — what has come ? 
What new light shall turn to darkness 

Vesta's holy fire in Rome ? 

Answer, Quindecemvirs ! Surely, 
Of this wondrous Nazarene 

Ye must know, who keep the secrets 
Of the prophet Sibylliue? 



THE TRIAL OF THE GODS. 

Nay, no word ! Here stand the Flamens : 
Have ye read the omens, priests? 

Slain the victims, white and sable. 
Scanned the entrails of the beasts? 

Priest of Pallas, see ! the peoiJio 

Ask for oracles to-day : 
Silent ! Priests of Mars and Venus? 

Lo, they turn, dumb-lipped, away I 
Priest of Jove ? Flamen dialis ! 

Here in Jove's own temple meet 
In debate the Roman Senate, 

And Jove's priest with timid feet 
Stands bevond the altar railin"^ ! 

Gods, I feel ye frown above ! 
In the shadow of Jove's altar 

Men defy the might of Jove I 

Treason riots in the temple 

At the sacrilege profound : 
Virgins mocked, and augurs banished, 

And divinities discrowned I 



lO SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Hush ! Old Rome herself appeareth, 

Pleadins: for the ancient faith : 
Urging all her by-gone glory — 

That to change the old were death. 
Rudely answer the patricians, 

Scoffing at the time-worn snare : 
Twice a thousand years of sacrifice 

Have melted into air ; 
Twice a thousand years of worship 

Have bitterly sufficed 
To prove there is no Jupiter ! 

The Senate votes for Christ I 



Not aimless is the story, 

The moral not remote : 
For still the gods are questioned, 

And still the Senates vote. 
Men sacrifice to Venus ; 

To Mars are victims led ; 
And Mercury is honored still ; 

And Bacchus is not dead ; — 



THE SHADOW. II 

But these are minor deities 

That cling to human sight : 
Our twilight they — but Eight and Wrong 

Are clear as day and night. 
We know the Truth : but falsehood 

With our lives is so inwove — 
Our Senates vote down Jesus 

As old Rome degraded Jove I 



THE SHADOW. 

'' I ^HERE is a shadow on the sunny wall, 

Dark and forbidding, like a bode of ill ; 
Go, drive it thence. Alas, such shadows fall 
From real things, nor may be moved at will. 

There is a shadow on my heart to-daj^ 
A cloudy grief condensing to a tear : 

Alas, I cannot drive its gloom away — 

Some sin or sorrow casts the shapeless fear. 



12 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE VALUE OF GOLD. 

npiIEEE may be standard weight for precious 
metal, 

But deeper meaning it must ever hold ; 
Thank God, there are some things no law can settle, 

And one of these — the real worth of srold. 



The stamp of king or crown has common power 
To hold the traffic-value in control ; 

Our coarser senses note this worth — the lower; 
The hiirher comes from senses of the soul. 

This truth we find not in mere warehouse learning — 
The value varies with the hands that hold ; 

The worth depends upon the mode of earning; 
And this man*s copper equals that man's gold. 

With empty heart, and forehead lined with 
scheming. 
Men's sin and sorrow have been that man*s gain ; 



THE VALUE OF GOLD. 1 3 

But this man's heart, with rich emotions teeming, 
]Makes fine the gold for which he coins his brain. 

But richer still than gold from upright labor — 
The only gold that should have standard price — 

Is the poor earning of our humble neighbor, 
Whose every coin is red with sacrifice. 

Mere store of money is not wealth, but rathei 
The proof of poverty and need of bread. 

Like men themselves is the bright gold they gather ' 
It may be living, or it may be dead. 

It may be filled with love and life and vigor, 
To guide the wearer, and to cheer the way ; 

It may be corpse-like in its weight and rigor, 
Bending the bearer to his native clay. 

There is no comfort but in outward showing 
In all the servile homage paid to dross ; 

Better to heart and soul the silent knowing 
Our little store has not been gained by loss. 



14 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



PEACE AND PAIN. 

T^RE day and night are symbols of creation, 

And each has part in all that God has made ; 
There is no ill without its compensation, 

And life and death are only light and shade. 
There never beat a heart so base and sordid 

But felt at times a sympathetic glow ; 
There never lived a virtue unrewarded, 

Nor died a vice without its meed of woe. 

In this brief life despair should never reach us ; 

The sea looks wide because the shores are dim ; 
The star that led the Magi still can teach us 

The way to go if we but look to Him. 
And as we wade, the darkness closing o'er us, 

The hungry waters surging to the chin, 
Our deeds will rise like stepping-stones before us — 

The good and bad — for we may use the sin. 



A SEED. 15 

A sin of youth, atoned for and forgiven, 

Takes on a virtue, if we choose to find : 
When clouds across our onward path are driven, 

We still may steer by its pale light behind. 
A sin forgotten is in part to pay for, 

A sin remembered is a constant gain : 
Sorrow, next joy, is what we ought to pray forj 

As next to peace we profit most from pain. 



A SEED. 



A KINDLY act is a kernel sown, 
That will grow to a goodly tree, 
Shedding its fruit when time has flown 
Down the gulf of eternity. 



1 6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



OHUNDER ALI'S WIFE. 

FROM THE HIXDOSTANEE. 

" T AM poor," said Chunder Ali, while the Man- 
darin above him 

Frowned in supercilious anger at the dog who 
dared to speak ; 

*' I am friendless and a Hmdoo : such a one meets 
few to love him 

Here in China, where the Hindoo finds the truth 
alone is weak. 

I have naught to buy your justice ; were I wise, I 
had not striven. 

Speak your judgment ; " and he crossed his arms 
and bent his quivering face. 



CHUNDER ALI'S WIFE. 1/ 

Heard he then the unjust sentence : all his goods 

and gold were given 
To another, and he stood alone, a beggar in the 

place. 

And the man who bought the judgment looked 

in triumph and derision 
At the cheated Hindoo merchant, as he rubbed 

liis hands and smiled 
At the whispered gratulation of his friends, and at 

the vision 
Of the more than queenly dower for Ahmeer, his 

only child. 
Fair Ahmeer, who of God's creatures was the only 

one who loved him. 
She, the diamond of his treasures, the one lamb 

within his fold, 
She, whose voice, like her dead mother's, was the 

only power that moved him, — 
She would praise the skill that gained her all this 

Hindoo's silk and gold. 
And the old man thanked Confucius, and the judge, 

and him who pleaded. 



l8 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

But why falls this sudden silence ? why does each 

one hold his hreath ? 
Every eye turns on the Hindoo, who before was 

all unheeded, 
And in wond'ring expectation all the court grows 

still as death. 

Not alone stood Chunder Ali : by his side Ahmeer 

was standing, 
And his brown hand rested lightly on her shoulder 

as he smiled 
At the sweet young face turned toward him. Then 

the father's voice commanding 
Fiercely bade his daughter to him fi'om the dog 

whose touch defiled. 
But she moved not, and she looked not at her father 

or the others 
As she answered, with her eyas upon the Hindoo's 

noble face : 
" Nay, my father, he defiles not : this kind arm above 

all others 
Is my choosing, and forever by his side shall be my 

place. 



A KISS. 19 

When you knew not, his clear hand had given 

many a sweet love-token, 
He had gathered all my heartstrings and had 

bound them round his life ; 
Yet you tell me he defiles me ; nay, my father, 

you have spoken 
In your anger, and not knowing I was Chunder 

All's wife." 



A KISS. 



T OYE is a plant with double root, 
And of strange, elastic power : 
Men's minds are divided in naming the fruit, 
But a kiss is only the flower. 



20 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



BONE AND SINEW AND BRAIN- 

'\7'E wbite-maned waves of the Western Sea. 

That ride and roll to the strand, 
Ye strong-winged birds, never forced a-lee 

By the gales that sweep toward land, 
Ye are symbols of death, and of hope that saves, 

As ye swoop in your strength and grace. 
As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves 

Of a past and puerile race. 

Cry, "Presto, change ! " and the lout is lord, 

With his vulgar blood turned blue ; 
Go dub your knight with a slap of a sword, 

As the kings in Europe do ; 
Go grade the lines of your social mode 

As 3^ou grade the palace wall, — 
The people forever to bear the load, 

And the gilded vanes o'er all. 



BONE AND SINEW AND BRAIN. 21 

But the human blocks will not lie as still 

As the dull foundation-stones, 
But will rise, like a sea, with an awful will, 

And ingulf the golden thrones ; 
For the days are gone when a special race 

Took the place of the gilded vane ; 
And the merit that mounts to the highest place 

Must have bone and sinew and bram. 

Let the cant of " the march of mind " be heard, 

Of the time to corae, when man 
Shall lose the mark of his brawn and l)eard 

In the future's levelling plan : 
'Tis the dream of a mind eifeminate, 

The whine for an easy crown ; 
There is no meed for the good and great 

In the weakling's levelling down. 

A nation's boast is a nation's bone, 

As well as its might of mind ; 
And the culture of either of these alone 

Is the doom of a nation signed. 



22 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

I>nt the cant of the ultra-suasion school 

Uu si news the hand and thigh, 
And preaches the creed of the weak to rule, 

And the strong to strusfofle and die. 
Our schools are spurred to the fatal race, 

As if health were the nation's sin. 
Till the head grows large, and the vampire face 

Is gorged on the limbs so thin. 
Our women have entered the abstract fields. 

And avaunt with the child and home : 
While the rind of science a pleasure yields 

Shall they care for the lives to come ? 
And they ape the manners of manly times 

In their sterile and worthless life. 
Till the man of the future ausrments his crimes 

T^ith a raid for a Sabine wife. 

IIo, white-maned waves of the Western Sea, 

That ride and roll to the strand ! 
Hr, strong-winged birds, never blown a-lee 

By the gales that sweep toward land I 



TO-DAY. 23 

Ye are symbols both of a hope that saves, 

As ye swoop iu your strength and grace. 
As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves 

Of a suicidal race. 
Ye have hoarded your strength in equal parts ; 

For the men of the future reign 
Must have faithful souls and kindly hearts, 

And bone and sinew and brain. 



TO-DAY. 



/^NLY from day to day 

The life of a wise man runs ; 
What matter if seasons far away 
Have gloom or have double suns? 

To climb the unreal path, 

We stray from the roadway here ; 
We swim the rivers of wrath, 

And tunnel the hills of fear. 



J4 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Our feet on the torrent's brink. 
Our eyes on the cloud afar, 

We fear the things we think, 
Instead of the thinsrs that are. 

Like a tide our work should rise - 
Each later wave the best ; 

To-day is a king in disguise,* 
To-day is the special test. 

Like a sawyer's work is life : 
The present makes the flaw. 

And the only field for strife 
Is the inch before the saw. 



* " The days are ever divine They come and go like 

muffled and veiled figures, sent from a distant friendly party; 
but they say nothing; and if we do not use the gifts they bring, 
they carry them as silently away." — Emerson, 



MY NATIVE LAND. 2$ 



MY NATIVE LAND. 

TT chanced to me upon a time to sail 

Across the Southern Ocean to and fro ; 
And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep, 

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, 
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, 

And left us yearning still for lands unknown. 

And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find 
In thous«,nd-isled Cathay another isle, — 

For one short noon its treasures filled the mind. 
And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. 

And so it was, from isle to isle we passed. 
Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips ; 



2^ SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And when that all was tasted, then at last 
We thirsted still for di-aughts instead of sips. 

I learned from this there is no Southern land 

Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. 
Sick minds need change ; l)utj when in health they 
stand 

'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen. 
And thus with me it was : the yearning turned 

From laden airs of cinnamon away, 
And stretched far westward, while the full heart 
burned 

With love for Ireland, looldng on Cathay I 

My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief I 

My land, that has no peer in all the sea 
'For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — 

If first to no man else, thou 'rt first to me. 
New loves may come with duties, but the first 

Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and smiles : 
Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed 

Is m}^ poor land, the Niobe of isles. 



THERE IS BLOOD ON THE EARTH. ^^ 



THERE IS BLOOD ON THE EARTH. 

'"T^HERE is blood on the face of the earth - 
It reeks through the years, and is red : 
Where Truth was slaughtered at birth, 
And the veins of Liberty bled. 

Lo ! vain is the hand that tries 

To cover the crimson stain : 
It spreads like a plague, and cries- 

Like a soul in writhing pain. 

It wasteth the planet's flesh ; 

It calleth on breasts of stone : 
God holdeth His wrath in a leash 

Till the hearts of men atone. 

Blind, like the creatures of time ; 
Cursed, like all the race, 



28 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

They answer : "The blood and crime 
Belong to a sect and place ! " 

What are these things to Heaven — 

Races or places of men ? 
The world through one Chr'st was forgiven 

Kor question of races then. 

The WTong of to-day shall be rued 

In a thousand coming years ; 
The debt must be paid in blood, 

The interest, in tears. 

Shall none stand up for right 

Whom the evil passes by? 
But God has the globe in sight, 

And hearkens the weak ones' cry. 

AYlierever a principle dies — 

Nay, principles never die 1 
But wherever a ruler lies. 

And a people share the lie ; 



THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 29 

Where right is crushed by force, 
And manhood is stricken dead — 

There dwelleth the ancient curse, 
And the blood on the earth is red I 



THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD IN MASSACHUSETTS, ON MAI 

16, 1874. 

O son^ of a soldier ridinsr down 
To the raging fight from Winchester town ; 
No song of a time that shook the earth 
With the nations' throe at a nation's birth ; 
But the song of a brave man, free from fear 
As Sheridan's self or Paul Revere ; 
Who risked what they risked, free from strife, 
And its promise of glorious pay — his life ! 

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred. 
And the answering echoes of life are heard : 



30 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The dew still clings to the trees and grass, 

And the early toilers smiling pass, 

As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, 

Or up the valley, where merrily comes 

The brook that sparkles in diamond rills 

As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills. 

What was it, that passed like an ominous breath - 
Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death ? 
What was it? The valley is peaceful still, 
And the leaves are afire on top of the hill. 
It was not a sound — nor a thinsr of sense — 
But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense 
That thrills the being of those who see 
At their feet the gulf of Eternity ! 

The air of the valley has felt the chill : 
The workers pause at the door of the mill ; 
The housewife, keen to the shivering air, 
Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, 
Instinctive taught by the mother-love. 
And thinks of the sleeping ones above. 



THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 3 1 

Why start the listeners ? Why does the course 
Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse — 
Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say — 
That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way ! 

God ! what was that, like a human shriek 
From the winding valley ? Will nobody speak ? 
Will nobody answer those women who cry 
As the awful warnings thunder by ? 

Whence come they ? Listen I And now they 

hear 
The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near ; 
They watch the trend of the vale, and see 
The rider who thunders so menacingly, 
With waving arms and warning scream 
To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. 
He draws no rein, but he shakes the street 
With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet ; 
And this the cry he flings to the wind : 
"To the hills for your lives! The flood is 

behind I " 



32 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

He cries and is gone ; but they know the worst-* 
The breast of the A\^illiamsburg dam has burst ! 
The basin that nourished their happy homes 
Is changed to a demon — It comes I it comes ! 

A monster in aspect, with shaggy front 

Of shattered dwellings, to take the brunt 

Of the homes they shatter — white-maned and 

hoarse. 
The merciless Terror fills the course 
Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, 
With Death on the first of its hissins: waves. 
Till cottasre and street and crowded mill 
Are crumbled and crushed. 

But onward still. 
In front of the roaring flood is heard 
The galloping horse and the warning word. 
Thank God ! the brave man's life is spared ! 
From Williamsburg town he nobly dared 
To race with the flood and take the road 
In front of the terrible swath it mowed. 



STAR-GAZING. 33 

For miles it thundered and crashed behind. 
But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind ; 
" They must be warned ! " was all he said, 
As away on his terrible ride he sped. 

When heroes are called for, bring the crown 
To this Yankee rider : send him down 
On the stream of time with the Curtius old ; 
His deed as the Roman's was brave and bold, 
And the tale can as noble a thrill awake. 
For he offered his life for the people's sake. 



STAR-GAZING. 

T ET be what is : why should we strive and 
Avrestle 

With awkward skill against a subtle dou])t? 
Or pin a mystery 'u^ath our puny pestle, 

And vainly try to bray its secret out? 



34 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

What boots it me to gaze at other planets, 
And speculate on sensate beings there ? 

It comforts not that, since the moon began its 
Well-ordered course, it knew no breath of air. 

There may be men and women up in Venus, 
Where science finds both summer-green and 
snow ; 
But are we happier asking, " Have they seen us ? 
And, like us earth-men, do they yearn to 
know ? " 

On greater globes than ours men may be greater. 
For all things here in fair proportion run ; 

But will it make our poor cup any sweeter 

To think a nobler Shakespeare thrills the sun ? 

Or, that our sun is but itself a minor, 

Like this dark earth — a tenth-rate satellite. 

That swings submissive round an orb diviner, 
Whose day is lightning, with our day for 
night ? 



STAR-GAZING. 35 

Or, past all suns, to find the awful centre 

Round which they meanly wind a servile road ; 

Ah, will it raise us or degrade, to enter 

Where that world's Shakespeare towers almost 
to God? 

No, no ; far better, "lords of all creation" 

To strut our ant-hill, and to take our ease ; 
To look aloft and say, " That constellation 
. Was lighted there our regal sight to please ! " 

We owe no thanks to so-called men of science j 
Who demonstrate that earth, not sun, goes 
round ; 

'Tw^ere better think the sun a mere appliance 
To light man's villages and heat his ground. 

There seems no good in asking or in humbling ; 

The mind incurious has the most of rest ; 
If we can live and laugh and pray, not grum- 
bling, 

'Tis all we can do here — and 'tis the best. 



30 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The throbbing brain will burst its tender raiment 
With futile force, to see by finite light 

How man's brief earning and eternal payment 
Are weighed as equal in th' Infinite sight. 

'Tis all in vain to struggle with abstraction — 
The milky-way that tempts our mental glass ; 

The study for mankind is earth-born action ; 
The highest wisdom, let the wondering pass. 

The Lord knows best : He gave us thirst for 
learning ; 

And deepest knowledge of His work betrays 
No thirst left waterless. Shall our soul-yearning, 

Apart from all things, be a quenchless blaze? 



DOLORES. 37 



DOLORES. 



TS he well blest who has no eyes to scan 

The woful things that shadow all our life : 
The latent brute behind the eyes of man, 

The place and power gained and stained by 

strife, 
The weakly victims driven to the wall, 
The subtile cruelties that meet us all 
Like eyes from darksome places ? Blest is he 
Who such sad things is never doomed to see ! 

The crust of common life is worn by time, 
And shines deception, as a thin veneer 
The raw plank hides, or as the frozen mere 
Holds drowned men embedded in its slime ; 
The ninety eat their bread of death and crime, 
And sin and sorrow that the ten may thrive. 

O, moaning sea of life I the few who dive 
Beneath thy waters, faint and short of breath, 



38 SONGS, LEGENDS, 4ND BALLADS. 

Not Dante-like, who cannot swim in death 
And view its secrets, but must swiftly rise, — 
They meet the light w^ith introverted eyes. 
And hands that clutch a few dim mysteries ! 

Our life a harp is, with unnumbered strings, 
And tones and symphonies ; but our poor skill 

Some shallow notes from its great music brings. 
We know it there ; but vainly wdsh and will. 

O, things symbolic ! Things that mock our 

sense — 
Our five-fold, pitiable sense — and say 
A thousand senses could not show one day 
As sight infinite sees it ; fruitful clay, 
And budding bough, and nature great with child 
And chill with doom and death — is all so dense 
That our dull thought can never read thy words, 
Or sweep with knowing hand thy hidden chords ? 

Have men not fallen from fair heights, once trod 
By nobler minds, who saw the works of God, 



LOVE, AND BE WISE. 39 

The flowers and living things, still undefiled, 
And spoke one language with them? And can we. 
In countless generations, each more pure 
Than that preceding, come at last to see 
Thy symbols full of meaning, and be sure 
That what we read is^all they have to tell? 



LOVE, AND BE WISE. 

"l^rOT on the word alone 

Let love depend ; 
Neither by actions done 
Choose ye the friend. 

Let the slow years fly^- 
These are the test ; 

Never to peering eye 
Opened the breast. 



40 SONGS, LEGENDS. AND BALLADS. 

Psyche won hopeless woe, 
ReachiDg to take ; 

Wait till your lilies grow 
Up from the lake. 

Gather words patiently ; 

Harvest the deed ; 
Let the winged years fly. 

Sifting the seed. 

Judging by harmony, 
Learning by strife ; 

Seeking in unity 
Precept and life. 

Seize the supernal — 
Prometheus dies ; 

Take the external 

On trust — and be wiseo 



RESURGITE. 4 1 



EESURGITE! — JUNE, 1877. 

" VTOW, for the faith that is in ye, 

Polander, Sclav, and Kelt ! 
Prove to the world what the lips have hurled 
The hearts have grandly felt. 



Rouse, ye races in shackles ! 

See in the East, the glare 
Is red in the sky, and the warning cry 

Is sounding — " Awake ! Prepare ! '* 

A voice from the spheres— a hand downreached 

To hands that would be free. 
To rend the gyves from the fettered lives 

That strain toward Liberty ! 

Circassia I the cup is flowing 
That holdeth perennial youth : 



42 SONGS, LEGENDS. AND BALLADS. 

"Who strikes succeeds, for when manhood bleeds 
Each drop is a Cadmus' tooth. 

Sclavonia ! first from the sheathing 

Thy knife to the cord that binds ; 
Thy one-tongued host shall renew the boast : 

"The Scythians are the Winds I " 

Greece ! to the grasp of heroes, 

Flashed with thine ancient pride, 
Thy swords advance : in the passing chance 

The great of heart are tried. 

Poland ! thy lance-heads brighten : 

The Tartar has swept thy name 
From the schoolman's chart, but the patriot's heart 

Preserves its lines in flame. 

Ireland ! mother of dolors, 

The trial on thee descends : 
Who quailcth in fear when the test is near, 

His bondage never ends. 



RESURGITE. 43 

Oppression, that kills the craven, 

Defied, is the freeman's good : 
No cause can be lost forever whose cost 

Is coined from Freedom's blood ! 



Liberty's Avine and altar 

Are blood and human right ; 
Her weak shall be strong while the struggle with 
wrong 

Is a sacrificial fight. 



Earth for the people — their laws their own — 

An equal race for all : 
Though shattered and few who to this are true 

Shall flourish the more they fall. 



44 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



RULES OF THE ROAD. 

"YTTIIAT man would be wise^ let him drink of 
the river 
Tiiat bears on its bosom the record of time : 
A message to him every wave can deliver 

To teach him to creep till he knows how to 
climb. 
Who heeds not experience, trust him not; tell 
him 
The scope of one mind can but trifles achieve : 
The weakest who draws from the mine will excel 
him — 
The wealth of mankind is the wisdom they 
leave. 

For peace do not hope — to be just you must 
break it ; 

Still work for the minute and not for the year ; 
When honor comes to you, be ready to take it ; 

But reach not to seize it before it is near. 



RULES OF THE ROAD. 45 

Be silent and safe — silence never betrays you ; 
Be true to your word and your wotk and your 
friend ; 
Put least trust in him who is foremost to praise 
you, 
Nor judge of a road till it draw to the end. 

Stand erect in the vale, nor exult on the moun- 
tain ; 
Take gifts with a sigh — most men give to be 
paid ; 
"1 had" is a heartache, "I have" is a fountain, — 
You're worth what you saved, not the million 
you made. 
Trust toil not intent, or your plans will miscarry ; 
Your wife keep a sweetheart, instead of a 
tease ; 
Rule children by reason, not rod; and, mind, 
marry 
Your girl when you can — and your boy when 
you please. 



4.6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Steer straight as the wind will allow ; but be 
ready 
To veer just a point to let travellers pass : 
Each sees his own star — a stiff course is too 
steady 
When this one to Meeting goes, that one to 
Mass. 
Our stream's not so wide but two arches may 
span it — 
Good neighbor and citizen ; these for a code, 
And this truth in sight, — every man on the planet 
Has just as much right as j^ourself to the road. 



FOREVER. 

'T^HOSE we love truly never die, 

Though year by year the sad memorial 
wreath, 
A ring and flowers, types of life and death, 
Are laid upon their graves. 



FOREVER. 47 

For death the pure life saves, 
And life all pure is love ; and love can reach 
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend he has whose face will never change — 
A dear communion that will not grow strange ; 

The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary 

years. 
For her who died long since, ah I waste not 
tears. 
She's thine unto the end. 

Thank God for one dead friend, 
With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, 

Through twenty years of death. 



48 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE LOVING CUP OF THE PAPYRUS. • 

"TT riSE men use days as husbaudmeu use bees, 
And steal rich drops from every pregnant 
hour ; 
Others, like wasps on blossomed apple-trees, 
Find gall, not honey, in the sweetest flower. 

Congratulations for a scene like this ! 

The olden times are here — these shall be olden 
When, years to come, remembering present bliss, 

AYe sigh for past Papyrian dinners golden. 

We thank the gods ! we call them back to light — 
Call back to hoary Egypt for Osiris, 

Who first made wine, to join our board to-night, 
And drain this loving cup with the Papyrus. 

*0n February 3d, 1877, at the dinner of ''The Papyrus," 
a club composed of literary men and artists of Boston, a beau- 
tiful crystal '' Loving Cup" was presented t(» the club by Mr. 
Wm. A. Hovey. 



THE LOVING CUP OF THE PAPYRUS. 49 

He comes ! the Pharaoh's god ! fling wide the 
door — 

Welcome, Osiris I See — thine old prescription 
Is honored here ; and thou shalt drink once more 

With men whose treasured ensign is Egyptian. 

A toast ! a toast ! our guest shall give a toast ! 

By Nilus' flood, we pray thee, god, inspire us ! 
He smiles — he wills — let not a word be lost — 

His hand upon the cup, he speaks : — 

" Papyrus I 

" I greet ye ! and mine ancient nation shares 
In greeting fair from Ammon, Ptah, and Isis, 

Whose leaf ye love — dead Egypt's leaf, that bears 
Our tale of pride from Cheops to Cambyses. 

" We gods of Egypt, who are wise with age — 
Five thousand years have washed us clean of 
passion — 

A golden era for this board presage. 

While ye do keep this cup in priestly fashion. 



50 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

'* We love to see the bonds of fellowship 
Made still more sacred by a fine traditioii ; 

We bless this bowl that moves from lip to lip 
In love's festoons, renewed by every mission. 

"Intern the vessel from profaning eyes ; 

The lip that kisses should have special merit ; 
Thus every sanguine draught shall S3'mbolize 

And consecrate the true Papyrian spirit. 

"For brotherhood, not wine, this cup should pass ; 

Its depths should ne'er reflect the eye of malice ; 
Drink toasts to strangers with the social glass, 

But drink to brothers with this lovins: chalice. 



•n 



"And now. Papyrus, each one pledge to each : 
And let this formal tie be warmly cherished. 

No words are needed for a kindly speech — 
The loving thought will live when words have 
perished." 



THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 5 1 



THE TREASUEE OF ABR^M. 
I. 

N the old Eabbinical stories, 
So old they might well be true,— 
The sacred tales of the Talmud, 

That David and Solomon knew, — 
There is one of the Father Abram, 

The greatest of Heber's race, 
The mustard-seed of Judea 

That filled the holy place. 
'Tis said that the fiery heaven 

His eye was first to read, 
Till planets were gods no longer, 

But helps for the human need ; 
He taught his simple people 

The scope of eternal law 
That swayed at once the fleecy cloud 

And the circling suns they saw. 



52 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

But the rude Chaldean peasants 

Uprose against the seer, 
And drave him forth — else never came 

This Talmud legend here. 

With Sarah his wife, and his servants, 

Whom he ruled with potent hand. 
The Patriarch planted his vineyards 

In the Canaanitish land ; 
With his wife — the sterile, but lovely, 

The fame of whose beauty grew 
Till there was no land in Asia 

But tales of the treasure knew. 
In his lore the sao:e lived — learnins: 

High thought from the starlit skies ; 
But heedful, too, of the light at home, 

And the danger of wistful eyes ; 
Till the famine fell on his corn-fields, 

And sent him forth again, 
To seek for a home in Egypt, — 

The land of the amorous men. 



TH£ TREASURE OF ABRAM. 53 



n. 



Long and rich is the caravan that halts at Egj^pt'a 

gate, 
While duty full the stranger pays on lowing herd 

and freight. 
Full keen the scrutiny of those who note the 

heavy dues ; 
From weanling foal to cumbrous wain, no chance 

of gain they lose. 

But fair the search — no wealth concealed ; while 
rich the gifts they take 

From Abram's hand, till care has ceased, and for- 
mal quest they make. 

They pass the droves and laden teams, the 
weighted slaves are past. 

And Abram doubles still the gifts ; one wain — 
his own — is last — 

It goes unsearched ! Wise Abram smiles, though 
dearly stemmed the quest ; 



54 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BAUADS. 

But baps will come from causes slight, 
And hidden things upspring to light : 

A breeze flings "svide the canvas fold, and deep 
within the wain, behold 

A brass-bound, massive chest! 

"Press on !" shouts Abram. "Hold ! " they cry ; 

" what treasure hide ye here ? " 
The word is stern — the answer brief: " Treasure ! 

'tis household gear ; 
Plain linen cloth and flaxen thread." The 

scribes deceived are WToth ; 
"Then weigh the chest — its price shall be the 

dues on linen cloth ! " 

The face of Abram seemed to grieve, though joy 

was in his breast. 
As carefully his servants took and weighed the 

mighty chest. 
But one hath watched the secret smile; he 

cries — " This stranger old 
Hath used deceit : no cloth is here — this chest is 

filled with gold I " 



THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 55 

"Nay, nay," wise Abram says, and smiles, though 

now he hides dismay ; 
" But time is gold : let pass the chest — on gold 

the dues I pa}^ 1 " 

But he who read the subtle smile detects the se- 
cret fear : 

"Detain the chest! nor cloth nor gold, but 
precious silk is here ! " 

Grave Father Abram stands like one who 

knoweth well the sword 
When tyros baffle thrust and guard ; slow comes 

the heedful word : 
"I seek no lawless gain — behold I my trains 

are on their way, 
Else w^ould these bands my servants break, and 

show the simple goods I take, 
That silk ye call ; but, for time's sake, on silk the 

dues I pay I " 

"He pays too much!" the watcher cries; "this 
man is full of guile ; 



56 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

From cloth to gold aud gold to silk, to save a 

paltry mile I 
This graybeard pay full silken dues on cloth for 

slave-bred girls ! 
Some prize is here — he shall not pass until he 

pay for pearls ! " 

Stern Abram turned a lurid eye, as he the man 

would slay ; 
An instant, rose the self-command ; but thin the 

lip and quick the hand, 
As one who makes a last demand : " On pearls 

the dues I pay I " 

"He cannot pass!" the watcher screamed, as to 

the chest he clung ; 
"He shall not pass! Some priceless thing he 

hideth here. Quick — workmen bring ! 
I seize this treasure for the King I " 
Old Abram stood aghast ; it seemed the knell of 

doom had rung. 



THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 57 



III. 

Reel-eyed with greed and wonder, 

The crowd excited stand ; 
The blows are rained like thunder 

On brazen bolt and band ; 
They burst the massive hinges, 

They raise the ponderous lid, 
And lo ! the peerless treasure 

That Father Abram hid : 

In pearls and silk and jewels rare. 
Fit for a Pharaoh's strife ; 

In flashing eyes and golden hair — 
Sat Abram's lovely w'ife I 



58 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE LAST OF THE NARWHALE. 

THE STORY OF AN ARCTIC NIP. 

A Y, ay, I'll tell you, shipmates, 
If you care to hear the tale, 
How myself and the royal yard alone 
Were left of the old Narwhale. 

"A stouter ship was never launched 

Of all the Clyde-built whalers ; 
And forty years of a life at sea 

Haven't matched her crowd of sailors. 
Picked men they were, all young and strong, 

And used to the wildest seas. 
From Donegal and the Scottish coast, 

And the ru^o^ed Hebrides. 

Co 

Such men as women cling to, mates, 

Like ivy round their lives : 
And the day we sailed, the quays were lined 

AVith weeping mothers and wives. 



THE LAST OF THE NARWHALE. 59 

They cried and prayed, and we gave 'em a cheer, 

In the thoughtless way of men ; 
God help them, shipmates — thh'ty years 

They've waited and prayed since then. 

"We sailed to the North, and I mind it well. 

The pity we felt, and pride 
When we sighted the cliffs of Labrador 

From the sea where Hudson died. 
We talked of ships that never came back, 

And when the great floes passed, 
Like ghosts in the night, each moonlit peak 

Like a great war frigate's mast, 
'Twas said that a ship was frozen up 

Li the iceberg's awful breast. 
The clear ice holding the sailor's face 

As he lay in his mortal rest. 
And I've thought since then, when the ships came 
home 

That sailed for the Franklin band, 
A mistake was made in the reckoning 

That looked for the crews on land. 



60 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

'They're floating still,' I've said to myself, 
* And Sir John has found the goal ; 

The Erebus and the Terror, mates, 
Are icebei'gs up at the Pole ! ' 

"We sailed due North, to Baffin's Bay, 

And cruised through weeks of light ; 
'Twas always day, and we slept by the bell. 

And longed for the dear old night, 
And the blessed darkness left behind, 

Like a curtain round the bed ; 
But a month drafrJied on like an afternoon 

With the wheeling sun o'erhead. 
We found the whales were farther still, 

The farther north we sailed ; 
Along the Greenland glacier coast, 

The boldest might have quailed, 
Such shapes did keep us company ; 

No sail in all that sea, 
But thick as ships in Mersey's tide 

The bergs moved awfully 



- 9.* 



THE LAST OF THE NARWHALE. 6 1 

Witliiu the current's northward stream ; 

But, ere the long day's close, 
We found the whales and filled the ship 

Amid the friendly floes. 

" Then came a rest : the day was blown 

Like a cloud before the night ; 
In the South the sun went redly down — 

In the North rose another light, 
Neither sun nor moon, but a shooting dawn, 

That silvered our lonely way ; 
It seemed we sailed in a belt of gloom, 

Upon either side, a day. 
The north wind smote the sea to death ; 

The pack-ice closed us round — 
The Narwhale stood in the level fields 

As fast as a ship aground. 
A weary time it was to wait. 

And to wish for spring to come, 
With the pleasant breeze and the blessed sun, 

To open the way toward home. 



62 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

" SpriDg came at last, the ice-fields groaned 

Like living things in pain ; 
They moaned and swayed, then rent amain, 

And the Narwhale sailed again. 
With joy the dripping sails were loosed 

And round the vessel swung ; 
To cheer the crew, full south she drew, 

The shattered floes among. 
We had no books in those old days 

To carry the friendly faces ; 
But I think the wives and lasses then 

Were held in better places. 
The face of sweetheart and wife to-day 

Is locked in the sailor's chest : 
But aloft on the yard, with the thought of 
home, 

The face in the heart was best. 
Well, well — God knows, mates, when and 
where 

To take the things he gave ; 
We steered for home — but the chart was his, 

And the port ahead — the grave I 



THE LAST OF THE NARWHALE. 63 

" We cleared the floes : through an open sea 

The Narwhale south'ard sailed, 
Till a day came round when the white fog rose. 

And the wind astern had failed. 
In front of the Greenland glacier line, 

And close to its base were we ; 
Through the misty pall we could see the wall 

That beetled above the sea. 
A fear like the fog crept over our hearts 

As we heard the hollow roar 
Of the deep sea thrashing the cliffs of ice 

For leao^ues alonoj the shore. 

"The years have com© and the years have 
gone, 

But it never wears away — 
The sense I have of the sights and sounds 

That marked that woful day. 
Flung here and there at the ocean's will, 

As it flung the broken floe — 
What strength had we 'gainst the tiger sea 

That sports with a sailor's woe ? 



64 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The lifeless berg and the lifeful ship 

Were the same to the sullen wave, 
As it swept them far from ridge to ridge. 

Till at last the Xarwhale drave 
With a crashing rail on the glacier wall — 

As sheer as the vessel's mast — 
A crashing rail and a shivered yard ; 

But the worst, we thought, was past. 
The brave lads sprang to the fending work, 

And the skipper's voice rang hard : 
* Aloft there, one with a readj^ knife — 

Cut loose that royal yard ! ' 
I SDran^ to the rio:o:ino:, voun": I was. 

And proud to be first to dare : 
The yard swung free, and I turned to gaze 
Toward the open sea, o'er the field of haze, 
And my heart grew cold, as if frozen through, 
At the moving shape that met my view — 

O Christ ! what a siirht was there ! 



o 



'* Above the fog, as I hugged the yard, 
I saw that an iceberg lay — 



THE LAST OF THE NAR WHALE. 6? 

A berg like a mountain, closing fast — 

Not a cable's length away ! 
I could not see through the sheet of mist 

That covered all below, 
But I heard the cheery voices still, 

And I screamed to let them know. 
The cry went down, and the skipper hailed, 

But before the word could come 
It died in his throat — and I knew they saw 

The shape of the closing doom ! 

"No sound but that — but the hail that died 

Came up through the mist to me ; 
Thank God, it covered the ship like a veil, 

And I was not forced to see — 
But I heard it, mates : O, I heard the rush, 

And the timbers rend and rive. 
As the yard I clung to swayed and fell : 

1 lay on the ice, alive ! 

Alive ! O God of mercy I ship and crew and sea 

were gone ! 
The hummocked ice and the broken yard. 

And a kneelin<]r man — alone I 



66 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

" A. kneeling man on a frozen bill, 

The sounds of life in the air — 
All death and ice — and a minute before 

The sea and the ship were there I 
I could not think they were dead and gone. 

And I listened for sound or word : 
But the deep sea roar on the desolate shore 

Was the only sound I beard. 

mates, I had no heart to thank 
The Lord for the life He gave ; 

1 spread my arms on the ice and cried 

Aloud on my shipmates' grave. 
The brave strong lads, with their strength all 
vain, 

I called them name by name ; 
And it seemed to me from the dying hearts 

A message upward came — 
Ay, mates, a message, up through the ice 

From every sailor's breast : 
* Go tell our mothers and wives at home 

To ;pray for us here at rest.* 



DYIJ^G IN HARNESS. 6/ 

"Yes, that's what it means ; 'tis a little word; 

But, mates, the strongest ship 
That ever was built is a baby's toy 

When it copes with an Arctic Nip." 



DYING IN HARNESS. 

/^NLY a fallen horse, stretched out there on 

the road. 
Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by 

the heavy load ; 
Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering 

eyes 
Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the beast 

to rise. 

Hold ! for his toil is over — no more labor for 

him; 
See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient 

eyes grow dim ; 



6S SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests 

the head — 
Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to 

be dead ; 
After the weary journey, how restful it is to 

lie 
"With the broken shafts and the cruel load — 

waiting only to die. 

Watchers, he died in harness — died in the shafts 

and straps — 
Fell, and the burden killed him : one of the 

day's mishaps — , 
One of the passing wonders marking the city 

road — 
A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or 

goad. 

Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your 

steps awhile, 
What is the symbol? Only death — why should 

we cease to smile 



DYING IN HARNESS. 69 

At death for a beast of burden? Ou, through 

the busy street 
That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the 

hurrying feet. 

What was the sign ? A symbol to touch the tire- 
less will ? 

Does He who taught in parables speak in par- 
ables still? 

The seed on the rock is wasted — on heedless 
hearts of men, 

That gather and sow and grasp and lose — laboi 
and sleep — and then — 

Then for the prize! A crowd in the street 

of ever-echoins: tread — 

The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in 
his harness — dead I 



70 SONGS, LEGENDS. AND BALLADS. 



GOLU. 

ONCE I had a little sweetheart 
In the land of the Malay, — » 
Such a little yellow sweetheart 1 
Warm and peerless as the day 
Of her own dear sunny island, 
Keimah, in the far, far East, 
Where the mango and banana 
Made us many a merry feast. 

Such a little copper sweetheart 

Was my Golu, plump and round, 
With her hair all blue-black streaming 

O'er her to the very ground. 
Soft and clear as dew-drop clinging 

To a grass blade was her eye ; 
For the heart below was purer 

Tlian the hiU-stream whispering by. . 



GOLU. 71 

Costly robes were not for Golu : 

No more raiment did she need 
Than the milky budding breadfruit^ 

Or the lily of the mead ; 
And she was my little sweetlieart 

Many a sunny summer day, 
When we ate the fragrant guavas, 

In the land of the Malay. 

Life was laughing then. Ah ! Goln^ 

Do you think of tliat old time, 
And of all the tales I told you 

Of my colder Western clime ? 
Do you think how happy were we 

When we sailed to strip the palm. 
And we made a latteen arbor 

Of the boat-sail in the calm ? 

They may call you semi-savage, 

Golu ! I cannot forget 
How I poised my Kttle sweetheart 

Like a copper statuette. 



72 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Now my path lies through the cities ; 

But they cannot drive away 
My sweet dreams of little Golu 

And the land of the Malay. 



UNDER THE RR^R 

/^"^LEAR and bright, from the snowy height, 

The joyous stream to the plain descended : 
Rich sands of gold were washed and rolled 
To the turbid marsh where its pure life ended. 



From stainless snow to the moor below 

The heart like the brook- has a wanins^ mis- 
sion : 

The buried dream in life's sluggish stream 
Is the golden sand of our young ambition. 



HIDDEN SIMS, 73 



HIDDEX SINS. 

TIj^OIl every sin that comes before tlie liglit, 

And leaves an outward blemish on the soul, 
How many, darker, cower out of sight, - 

And burrow, blind and silent, like the mole. 
And like the mole, too, with its busy feet 

That dig and dig a never-ending cave, 
Our hidden sins gnaw through the soul, and meet 

And feast upon each other in its grave. 

A buried sin is like a covered sore 

That spreads and festers 'neath a painted face ; 
And no man's art can heal it evermore, 

But only His — the Surgeon's — promised grace. 
Who hides a sin is like the hunter who 

Once warmed a frozen adder with his breath, 
And when he placed it near his heart it flew 

With poisoned fangs and stung that heart to death. 



74 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

A sculptor once a granite statue made, 

One-sided only, just to fit its place : 
The unseen side was monstrous ; so men shade 

Their evil acts behind a smihng face. 
O blind ! foolish ! thus our sins to hide, 

And force our pleading hearts the gall to sip ; 
O cowards ! who must eat the m}Trh, that Pride 

May smile like Virtue with a lying lip. 

A sin admitted is nigh half atoned ; 

And wliile the fault is red and freslily done, 
If we but drop our eyes and thmk, — 'tis owned,- 

'Tis half forgiven, half the crown is won. 
But if we heedless let it reek and rot. 

Then pile a mountain on its grave, and turn. 
With smiles to all the world, — that tainted spot 

Beneath the mound will never cease to bum. 



UNSPOKEN WORDS. 75 



UNSPOKEN WORDS. 

npiIE kindly words that rise within the heart, 

And thrill it with their sjTiipathetic tone, 
But die ere spoken, fail to play their part. 

And claim a merit that is not their own. 
The kindly word unspoken is a sin, — 

A sin that wraps itself in purest guise. 
And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within, 

That not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies. 

But 'tis not so : another heart may thirst 

For that kind word, as Hagar in the wild ■ — 
Poor banished Hagar ! — prayed a well might burst 

From out the sand to save her parching child. 
And loving eyes that cannot see the mind 

Will watch the expected movement of the lip : 
All ! can ye let its cutting silence wind 

Around that heart, and scathe it like a whip ? 



ir. 



70 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Unspoken words, like treasures in the mine, 

Are valueless until we give them birth : 
Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine, 

Which God has made to bless and gUd the earth. 
How sad 'twould be to see a master's hand 

Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute ! 
But oh ! what pain when, at God's own command, 

A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute ! 

Then hide it not, the music of the soul, 

Dear sympathy, expressed with kindly voice, 
But let it like a shining river roll 

To deserts dry, — to hearts that would rejoice. 
Oh I let the symphony of kuidly words 

Sound for the poor, the fiiendless, and the weak ; 
And He will bless you, — He who struck these 
chords 

Will strike another when in turn you seek. 



THE POISON-FLOWER. ^^ 



THE POISON-FLOWER. 

I N tlie evergreen sliade of an Austral wood, 
Where the long branches laced above, 
Through wliich all day it seemed 
The sweet sunbeams down-gleamed 
Like the rays of a young mother's love, 
Wlien she hides her glad face with her hands and 
peeps 
At the younghng that crows on her knee : 
'Neath such ray-shivered shade, 
In a banksia glade, 
Was this flower first shown to me. 

A rich pansy it was, with a small white lip 
And a wonderful purple hood ; 
And your eye caught the sheen 
Of its leaves, parrot-green, 
Down the dim gothic aisles of the wood. 
And its foliage rich on the moistureless sand 



yS SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Made vou lono: for its odorous breath ; 

But ah ! 'twas to take 

To your bosom a snake, 
For its pestilent fragrance was death. 

And I saw it again, in a far northern land, — 
Not a pansy, not purple and white ; 

Yet in beauteous guise 

Did this poison-plant rise. 
Fair and fatal again to my sight. 
And men longed for her kiss and her odorous breath 
When no friend was beside them to tell 

That to kiss was to die, 

That her truth was a lie. 
And her beauty a soul-killing speU. 



MY MOTHER S MEMORY. 79 



MY MOTHER'S MEMORY. 

'in HE RE is one bright star in heaven 

Ever shining in my night ; 
God to me one guide has given, 

Like the sailor's beacon-light, 
Set on every shoal and danger, 

Sending out its warning ray 
To the home-bound weary stranger 

Looking for the land-locked bay. 

In my farthest, wildest wanderings 
I have turned me to that love, 

As a diver, 'neath the water. 
Turns to watch the light above. 



80 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



\ 



THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK 

I^^LD memories rush o'er my mind just now 

Of faces and friends of the past ; 
Of that happy time when life's dream was all bright- 

Ere the clear sky of youth was o'ercast. 
Very dear are those mem'ries, — they ' ve clung 
round my heart, 
And bravely withstood Time's rude shock ; 
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now 
Than the face of the old school clock. 

'Twas a quaint old clock with a quaint old face, 

And great iron weights and chain ; 
It stopped when it hked, and before it struck 

It creaked as if 'twere in pain. 



THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK. 8 I 

It had seen many years, and it seemed to say, 

" I 'm one of the real old stock," 
To tlie youtliful fry, who with reverence looked 

On the face of the old school clock. 

How many a time have I labored to sketch 

That yellow and time-honored face. 
With its basket of flowers, its figures and hands, 

And the weights and the chains in their place 1 
How oft have I gazed with admiring eye. 

As I sat on the wooden block, 
And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things 

That were inside that old school clock ! 

What a terrible frown did the old clock wear 

To the truant, who timidly cast 
An anxious eye on those merciless hands. 

That for him had been moving too fast ! 
But its frown soon changed ; for it loved to smile 

On the thoughtless, noisy flock. 
And it creaked and whirred and struck with glee, — 

Did that genial, good-humored old clock. 



82 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled 

With the world, its cares and ways, 
When again I stood in that little school 

Where I passed my boyhood's days. 
My old friend was gone! and there hung a thing 

That my sorrow seemed to mock, 
As I gazed with a tear and a softened heart 

At a new-fashioned Yankee clock. 

'Twas a gaudy thmg with bright painted sides, 

And it looked with insolent stare 
On the desks and the seats and on every thing old 

And I thought of the friendly air 
Of the face that I missed, with its weights and 
chains, — 

All gone to the auctioneer's block : 
'Tis a thing of the past, — never more shall I see 

But in memory that old school clock. 

'Tis the way of the world : old friends pass away, 

And fresh faces arise in their stead ; 
But still 'mid the din and the bustle of life 

We cherish fond thoughts of the dead. 



MARY. 83 

Yes, dearly those memories cling round my 
heart, 

And bravely withstand Time's rude shock ; 
But not one is more dear or more hallowed to me 

Than the face of that old school clock. 



D 



MARY. 

EAR honored name, beloved for human ties. 
But loved and honored first that One was 



given 
In living proof to erring mortal eyes 

That our poor earth is near akin to heaven. 

Sweet word of dual meaning : one of grace. 
And born of our kind advocate above ; • 

And one by memory linked to that dear face 
That blessed my childhood with its mother- 
love, 



84 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And taught me first the simple prayer, "To thee, 
Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries." 

Through mist of years, those words recall to me 
A childish face upturned to loving eyes. 

And yet to some the name of Mary ])ears 
No special meaning and no gracious power ; 

In that dear word they seek for hidden snares, 
As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower. 

But faithful hearts can see, o'er doubts and fears, 
The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth ; 

Which to the upturned trusting face appears 
A more than angel, though of human birth. 

The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless ni<^ht 
The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow ; 

So unseen God still lets His promised light, 
Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow. 



A LEGEND OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 85 



A LEGE^fD OF THE BLESSED VIIIGIN. 

nnUE day of Joseph's marriage unto Mary, 

In thoughtful mood he said unto his wife, 
" Behold, I go into a far-off country 

To labor for thee, and to make thy life 
And home all sweet and peaceful." And the Virgin 

Unquestioning beheld her spouse depart : 
Then lived she many days of musing gladness. 
Not knowing that God's hand was round her 
heart. 

And dreaming thus one day within her chamber, 
She wept with speechless bliss, when lo ! the face 

Of white-winged angel Gabriel rose before her, 
And bowing spoke, " Hail I Mary, full of grace, 



S6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The Lord is with thee, and among the nations 
Forever blessed is thy chosen name.'* 

The angel vanished, and the Lord's high Presence 
With untold glory to the Virgin came. 

A season passed of joy unknown to mortals, 

When Joseph came with what his foil had won, 
And broke the brooding ecstasy of Mary, 

Whose soul was ever with her promised Son. 
But nature's jealous fears encircled Joseph, , 

And round his heart in darkening doubts held 
sway. 
He looked upon his spouse cold-eyed, and pondered 

How he could put her from his sight away. 

And once, when moody thus within his garden. 

The gentle girl besought for some ripe fruit 
That hung beyond her reach, the old man an- 
swered. 
With face averted, harshly to her suit : 
" I will not serve thee, woman I Thou hast wronged 
me: 



A LEGEND OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 8/ 

I heed no more thy words and actions mild ; 
If fruit tliou wantest, thou canst henceforth ask it 
From him, the father of thy unborn child ! " 

But ere the words had root within her hearing, 

The Virgin's face was glorified anew ; 
And Joseph, turning, sank within her presence, 

And knew indeed his wondrous dreams were 
true. 
For there before the sandalled feet of Mary 

The kingly tree had bowed its top, and she 
Had pulled and eaten from its prostrate branches, 

As if uiiconscious of the mystery. 



88 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE LOSS OF THE EMIGRANTS. * 

T7OR months and years, with penury and want 

■^ And heart-sore envy did they dare to cope ; 

And mite by mite was saved from earnings scant, 

To buy, some future day, the God-sent hope. 

They trod the crowded streets of hoary towns, 
Or tilled from year to year the wearied fields, 

And in the shadow of the golden crowns 

They gasped for sunshine and the health it yields. 

They turned from homes all cheerless, child and 
man, 

With kindly feelings only for the soil. 
And for the kindred faces, pinched and wan. 

That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at their toiL 

They lifted up their faces to the Lord, 

And read His answer in the westering sun 

That called them ever as a shining word, 
And beckoned seaward as the rivers run. 

• The steamer Atlantic was wrecked near Halifjix, N.S., April 1st, 1873, 
c^d 560 lives lost. 



THE LOSS OF THE EMIGRANTS. 89 

They looked their last, wet-eyed, on Swedish 
hills, 

On German villages and English dales ; 
Like brooks that grow from many mountain rills 

The peasant-stream flowed out from Irish valea. 

Their grief at parting was not all a grief, 
But blended sweetly with the joy to come. 

When from full store they spared the rich relief 
To gladden all the dear ones left at home. 

"We thank thee, God I " they cried ; " the cruel 
gate 
That barred our lives has swung beneath Thy 
hand ; 
Behind our ship now frowns the cruel fate, 

Before her smiles the teeming Promised Land ! " 

Alas ! when shown in mercy or in wrath, 
How weak we are to read God's awful lore I 

His breath protected on the stormy path. 
And dashed them lifeless on the promised 
shore I 



90 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

II is hand sustained them in the parting woe, 
And jrave brig:ht vision to the heart of each 

His waters bore them where they wished to go, 
Then swept them seaward fiom the very beach ! 

Theu' home is reached, their fetters now are riven, 
Theii- humble toil is o'er, — their rest lias come ; 

A land was promised and a land is given, — 
But, oh I God help the waiting ones at home I 



WITHERED SNOWDROPS. f^t 



WITHERED SNOWDROPS. 

^HEY came in the early spring-days, 
With the first refreshing showers 
And I watched the growing beauty 
Of the little drooping flowers. 

They had no bright hues to charm me. 

No gay painting to allure ; 
But they made me think of angels, 

They were all so white and pure. 

In the early morns I saw them, 
Dew-drops clinging to each bell, 

And the first glad sunbeam hasting 
Just to kiss them ere they fell. 

Daily grew their spotless beauty ; 
But I feared when chill winds blew 



92 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

They were all too frail and tender, — 
And alas ! my fears were true. 

One glad morn I went to see them 

While the bright drops gemmed their snovv 

And one angel flower was withered, 
Its fair petals drooping low. 

Its white sister's tears fell on it, 
And the sunbeam sadly shone ; 

For its innocence was withered, 
And its purity was gone. 

Still I left it there : I could not 

Tear it rudely from its place ; 
It might rise again, and summer 

Might restore its vanished grace. 

But my hopes grew weaker, weaker. 
And my heart with grief was pained 

When I knew it must be severed 
From the innocence it stained. 



WITHERED SNOWDROPS. 93 

I must take it from the p\ire ones : 
Henceforth they must live apart. 

But I could not cut my flow'ret — 
My lost angel — from my heart. 

Oft I think of that dead snowdrop, 
Think with sorrow, when I meet, 

"Day by day, the poor lost flowers, — 
Sullied snowdrops of the street. 

Jt\ey were pure once, loved and loving, 
And there still lives good within. 

Ah I speak gently to them : harsh words 
Will not lead them from their sin. 

The are not like withered flowers 

That can pever bloom again : 
They can rise, bright angel snowdrops, 

Purified from every stain. 



94 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE WAIL OF TWO CITIES. 



CHICAGO, OCTOBER 9, 1871. 

/^^ AUNT in the midst of the prairie? 

She who was once so fair ; 
Charred and rent are her garments, 
Heavy and dark like cerements ; 
Silent, but round her the air 
Plaintively wails, " Miserere I '* 

Proud like a beautiful maiden, 

Art-Hke from forehead to feet. 

Was she till pressed like a leman 

Close to the breast of the demon, 
Lusting for one so sweet, 

So were her shoulders laden. 



THE WAIL OF TWO CITIES. 95 

Friends she had, rich in her treasures : 
Shall the old taunt be true, — 

Fallen, they turn their cold faces. 

Seeking new wealth-gilded places, 
Saying we never knew 

Aught of her smiles or her pleasures ? 

Silent she stands on the prairie, 

Wrapped in her fire-scathed sheet : 

Around her, thank God ! is the Nation, 

Weeping for her desolation, 

Pourmg its gold at her feet, 

Answering her ''Miserere ! " 



:>J«ic 



BOSTON, NOVEMBER 9, 1872. 

O broad-breasted Queen among Nations I 

O Mother, so strong in thy youth I 
Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire, 
And willed thou be chastened by fire. 
Without any ruth ? 



g6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Has the Merciful tired of His mercy, 

And turned from thy sinning in wrath, 

That the world with raised hands sees and pitie3 

Thy desolate daughters, thy cities, 
DespoHed on their path ? 

One year since thy youngest was stricken : 

Thy eldest lies stricken to-day. 
Ah ! God, was thy wrath without pity, 
To tear the strong heart from our city, 

And cast it away ? 

O Father ! forgive us our doubting ; 

The stain from our weak souls efface ; 
Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten ; 
Thy hand has but fallen to hasten 

Return to thy grace. 

Let us rise purified from our ashes 

As sinners have risen who grieved ; 

Let us show that twice-sent desolation 

On every true heart in the nation 
Has conquest achieved. 



THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFDRD. Q/ 



THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. 

'T^HERE is an old tradition sacred held in Wex- 
ford town, 
That says : " Upon St. Martin's eve no net shall be 

let down ; 
No fishermen of Wexford shall, upon that holy day, 
Set sail or cast a line within the scope of Wexford 

Bay." 
The tongue that framed the order, or the time, no 

one could tell ; 
And no one ever questioned, but the people kept it 

well. 
And never in man's memory was fisher known to 

leave 
The little town of Wexford on the good St. Martin's 

Eve. 



98 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Alas ! alas for "Wexford I once upon that liolj 

day 
Came a wondrous shoal of herring to the waters of 

the Bay. 
The fishers and their families stood out upon the 

beach, 
And all day watched with wistful eyes the wealth 

they might not reach. 
Such shoal was never seen before, and keen regrets 

went round — 
Alas I alas for Wexford ! Hark I what is that 

grating sound ? 
The boats' keels on the shingle ! Mothers ! ^Wves ! 

ye well may grieve, — 
The fishermen of Wexford mean to sail on Martin's 

Eve I 

** Oh, stay ye ! " cried the women wild. " Stay I " 

cried the men white-haired ; 
" And dare ye not to do this thing your fathers 

never dared. 



THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. 99 

No man can thrive who tempts the Lord ! " 
" Away I " they cried : " the Lord 

Ne'er sent a shoal of fish but as a fisherman's re- 
ward." 

And scofi&ngly they said, " To-night our nets shall 
sweep the Bay, 

And take the Saint who guards it, should he come 
across our way ! " 

The keels have touched the water, and the crews 
are in each boat ; 

And on St. Martin's Eve the Wexford fishers are 
afloat I 

The moon is shining coldly on the sea and on the 

land. 
On dark faces in the fishing-fleet and pale ones on 

the strand, 
As seaward go the daring boats, and heavenward 

the cries 
Of kneeling wives and mothers with uplifted hands 

and eyes. 



• lOO SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

" O Holy Virgin ! be tlieir guard ! " the weeping 
women cried ; 

The old men, sad and silent, watched the hoats 
cleave through the tide, 

As past the farthest headland, past the Hghthouse, 
in a line 

The fishing-fleet went seaward through the phos- 
phor-lighted brine. 

Oh, pray, ye wives and mothers ! All your prayers 
they sorely need 

To save them from the wrath they 've roused by 
their rebellious greed. 

Oh ! white-haired men and little babes, and weep- 
ing sweethearts, pray 

To God to spare the fishermen to-night in Wexford 
Bay! 

The boats have reached good offing, and, as out the 

nets are thrown, 
The hearts ashore are chilled to hear the soughing 

sea wmd's moan: 



THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. IQI 

Like to a human heart that loved, and hoped for 

some return, 
To find at last but hatred, so the sea-wind seemed 

to mourn. 
But ah I the Wexford fishermen I their nets did 

scarcely smk 
One inch below the foam, when, lo I the daring 

boatme'n shrink 
With sudden awe and whitened lips and glaring 

eyes agape. 
For breast-high, threatening, from the sea uprose a 

Human Shape I 

Beyond them, — in the moonlight, — hand upraised 

and awful mien, 
Waving back and pointing landwards, breast-high 

in the sea 'twas seen. 
Thrice it waved and thrice it pointed, — then, with 

clenched hand upraised, 
The awful shape went down before the fishers as 

they gazed ! 



102 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Gleaming whitely through the water, fathoms deep 
they saw its frown, — 

Tliey saw its white hand clenched above it, — sink- 
ing slowly down ! 

And then there was a rushing 'neath the boats, and 
every soul 

Was thrilled with greed: they knew it was the 
seaward-going shoal ! 

Defying the di-ead warning, every face was sternly 
set, 

And wildly did they ply the oar, and wildly haul 
the net. 

But two boats' crews obeyed the sign, — God-fearing 
men weie they, — 

They cut their lines and left their nets, and home- 
ward sped away; 

But darkly rising sternwards did God's wrath in 
tempest sweep. 

And they, of all the fishermen, that night escaped 
the deep. 



THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. IO3 

Oh, wives and mothers, sweethearts, EtresI well 

might ye mourn next day: 
For seventy fishers' corpses strewed the shores of 

Wexford Bay 1 



IC4 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE FEAST OF THE GAEL. 

ST. PATRICK'S DAY. 
I. 

^T /"HAT a union of hearts is the love of a mother 

When races of men in her name unite I 
For love of Old Erin, and love of each other, 

The boards of the Gael are full to-night ! 
Their millions of men have one toast and one 
topic — 
Their feuds laid aside and their envies re- 
moved ; 
From the pines of the Pole to the palms of the 
Tropic, 
They drink : " The dear Land we have prayed 
for and loved ! " 
They are One by the bond of a time-honored 
fashion ; 
Though strangers may see but the lights of 
their feast. 



THE FEAST OF THE GAEL. I05 

Beneath lies the symbol of ftiith and of passion 
Alike of the Pagan and Christian priest I 



II. 

When native laws by native kings 

At Tara were decreed, 
The grand o"ld Gheber worship 

Was the form of Erin's creed. 
The Sun, Life-Giver, was God on high ; 

Men worshipped the Power they saw ; 
And they kept the faith as the ages rolled 

By the solemn Beltane law. 
Each year, on the Holy Day, was quenched 

The household fires of the land ; 
And the Druid priest, at the midnight hour, 

Brought forth the flaming brand, — 
The living spark for the Nation's hearths, — 

From the Monarch's hand it came. 
Whose fire at Tara spread the sign — 

And the peopje were One by the flame I 



I06 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Aud Baal Tvas God ! till Patrick came, 

By the Holy Xame inspired ; 
On the Beltane night, in great Tara's sight, 

His pile at Slaue was fired. 
Aud the deed that was death was the Nation's life. 

And the doom of the Pasran bane ; 
For Erin still keeps Beltane night. 

But lights her lamp at Slane ! 

Though fourteen centuries pile their dust 

On the mound of the Druid's grave, 
To-xiGHT IS THE Beltaxe ! Brisfht the fire 

That Holy Patrick gave ! 
To-xiGHT* IS THE Beltane ! Let him heed 

Who studieth creed and race : 
Old times and gods are dead, and we 

Are far from the ancient place ; 
The waves of centuries, war, and waste. 

Of famine, gallows, and gaol, 
Have swept our land ; but the world to-night 

Sees the Beltane Fire of the Gael I 



THE FEAST OF THE GAEL. 10/ 

III. 

O land of sad fate ! like a desolate queen, 

Who remembers in sorrow the crown of her 
glory, 
The love of thy children not strangely is seen — 
For humanity weeps at thy heart-touching 
story. 
Strong heart in affliction ! that draweth thy foes 
'Till they love thee more dear than thine own 
generation : 
Thy strength is increased as thy life-current 
flows, — 
What were death to another is Ireland's salva- 
tion I 
God scatters her sons like the seed on the lea, 
And they root where they fall, be it mountain 
or furrow ; 
They come to remain and remember ; and she 
In their growth will rejoice in a blissful to- 
morrow ! 



I08 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

They sing iu strange lands the sweet songs of 
their home, 
Their emerald Ziou enthroned in the billows ; 
To work, not to weep by the rivers they come : 
Their harps are not hanged in despair on the 
willows. 
The hope of the mother beats youthful and 
strong, 
Responsive and true to her children's pulsa- 
tions, 
No petrified heart has she saved from the 
wrong — 
Our Niobe lives for her place 'mong the 
nations ! 

Then drink, all her sons — be they Keltic or 
Danish, 
Or Xorman or Saxon — one mantle was o'er us ; 
Let race lines, and creed lines, and every line, 
vanish — 
We drink as the Gael: " To the Mother that 
bore us ! " 



AT FREDERICKSBURG. 1 00 



AT FREDERICKSBURG.— DEC. 13, 1862. 

f^OB send us peace, and keep red strife away; 
But should it come, God send us men and 
steel ! 
The land is dead that dare not face the day 

When foreign danger threats the common weal. 

Defenders strong are they that homes defend ; 

From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar. 
Well blest the country that has sons to lend 

From trades of peace to learn the trade of war. 

Thrice blest the nation that has every son 
A soldier, ready for the warning sound ; 

Who marches homew^ard when the tight is done, 
To SY/ing the hammer and to till the ground. 

Call back that morning, with its lurid light. 

When throu<2:h our land the awful war-bell tolled ; 



no SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

When lips were mute, and women's faces white 
As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled. 

Call back that morn : an instant all were dumb, 

As if the shot had struck the Nation's life ; 
Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling 
drum. 
And men streamed in to meet the coming 
strife. 

They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom, 
The plough left rusting in the prairie farm ; 

They saw but " Union " in the gathering gloom ; 
The tearless women helped the men to arm ; 

Briixades from towns — each villai^e sent its band : 
German and Irish — every race and faith ; 

There was no question then of native land, 
But — love the Flas: and follow it to death. 



o 



No need to tell their tale : through every age 
The splendid story shall be sung and said ; 



AT FREDERICKSBURG. m 



But let me draw one picture from the page — 
For words of song embalm the hero dead. 



The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are 

planted, 

Like Gorgon fiites shading its terrible brow ; 

The word has been passed that the stormers are 

wanted, 

And Burnsidc's battalions are mustering now. 

The armies stand by to behold the dread meet- 



ing ; 



The work must be done by a desperate few ; 
The black-mouthed guns on the height give them 
greeting — 
From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in 
view. 
Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles be- 
hind them 
Are Georgia militia — an Irish brigade — 
Their caps have green badges, as if to remind 
them 
Of all the brave record their country has made. 



112 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The stormcrs go forward — the Federals cheer 
them ; 
They breast the smooth hillside — the black 
mouths are dumb ; 
The riflemen lie in the works till they near them, 

And cover the stormers as upward they come. 
Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn? 
At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined ; 
The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed 
column, 
That reels from the heisfht, leavin": hundreds 
behind. 
The armies are hushed — there is no cause for 
cheering : 
The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain. 
Again come the stormers ! and as they are nearing 

The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back aii:ain. 
And so till full noon come the Federal masses — 
Flung back from the height, as the clifi* flings a 
wave ; 
Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle passes, 
No wavering rank till it steps on the grave. 



AT FREDERICKSBURG. 1 13 

Then comes a brief lull, and the siLoke-pall is 
lifted, 
The green of the hillside no longer is seen ; 
The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is drifted, 
The earthworks still held by the badges of 
green. 
Have they quailed ? is the word. No : again 
they are forming — 
Again comes a column to death and defeat ! 
What is it in these who shall now do the stormin^r 
That makes every Georgian spring to his feet? 

" O God ! what a pity ! " they cry in their cover, 
As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight ; 
"'Tis Meagher and his fellows! their caps have 
green clover ; 
'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the 
fight ! " 
Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before 
them. 
With Meagher at their head, they have dashed 
at the hill I 



114 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Their foemen are proud of the country that bore 
them ; 
But, Irish in love, they are enemies still. 
Out rings the fierce word, "Let them have it!" 
the rifles 
Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of the 
foe : 
It is green against green, but a principle stilles 
The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow. 
The column has reeled, but it is not defeated ; 

In front of the guns they re-form and attack ; 
Six times they have done it, and six times re- 
treated ; 
Twelve hundred they came, and two hundred 
go back. 
Two hundred go back with the chivalrous storv ; 
The wild day is closed in the night's solemn 
shroud ; 
A thousand lie dead, but their death was a 
glory 
That calls not for tears — the Green Badges 
are proud I 



AT FREDERICKSBURG. I 15 

Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fear- 
less, 
Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon's 
mouth ; 
And honor to them who were true, though not 
tearless, — 
Who bravely that day kept the cause of the 
South. 
The quarrel is done — God avert such another ; 
The lesson it brought we should evermore 
heed : 
Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother, 
No matter what birth or what race or what 
creed. 



Il6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE PRIESTS OF IRELAND. 

["The time has arrived when the interests of our country 
require frora us, as priests and as Irishmen, a public pro- 
nouncement on tlie vital question of Home Rule. . . . We 
suggest the holding of an aggcegate meeting in Dublin, of the 
representatives of all interested in this great question — and 
they are the entire people, without distinction of creed or 
class — for the purpose of placing, by constitutional means, on 
a broad and definite basis, the nation's demand for the restora- 
tion of its plundered rights." — Extract from the Declaration 
of the Bishop and Priests of the Diocese of Cloyne, made on 
Sept. 15, 1873.] 

'VT'OU have waited, Priests of Ireland, until tho 

hour was late : 
You have stood with folded arms until 'twas 

asked — Why do they wait ? 
By the fever and the famine you have seen your 

flocks grow thin, 
Till the whisper hissed through Ireland that youi 

silence was a sin. 
You have looked with tearless eyes on fleets of 

exile-laden shi2:>s, 
And the hands that stretched toward Ireland 

brought no tremor to your lips ; 



THE PRIESTS OF IRELAND, II 7 

111 the sacred cause of freedom you have seen 

3^0 ur people band, 
And they looked to you for sympathy : you never 

stirred a hand ; 
But you stood upon the altar, with their blood 

within your veins. 
And you bade the pale-faced people to be patient 

in their chains ! 
Ah, you told them — it was cruel — but you said 

they were not true 
To the holy faith of Patrick, if they wore not 

ruled by you ; 
Yes, you told them from the altar— they, the 

vanguard of the Faith — 
With your eyes like flint against them — that 

their banding was a death — 
Was a death to something holy : till the heart- 
wrung people cried 
That their priests had turned against them — that 

they had no more a guide — 
That the English gold had bought you — yes, 

they said it — but they lied I 



Il8 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Yea, they lied, they sinned, not knowing you — 

they had not gauged 3'our love : 
Heaven bless 3^011, Priests of Ireland, for the wis- 
dom from above, 
For the strength that made you, loving them, 

crush back the tears that rose 
When 3^0 ur countr^^'s heart was quiv'ring 'neath 

the statesman's muffled blows : 
You saw clearer far than they did, and you 

grieved for Ireland's pain ; 
But 3"ou did not rouse the people — and your 

silence was their gain ; 
For too often has the peasant dared to dash his 

naked arm 
'Gainst the sabre of the soldier : but you shielded 

him from harm. 
And your face was set against him — though your 

heart was with his hand 
When it flung aside the plough to snatch a pike 

for fatherland I 



THE PRIESTS OF IRELAND. II 9 

O, God bless you, Priests of Ireland I You 

were waiting with a will, 
You were waiting with a purpose when you bade 

your flocks be still ; 
And you preached from off your altars not alone 

the Word Sublime, 
But your silence preached to Irishmen — "Be 

patient : bide your time ! " 
And they heard you, and obeyed, as well as out- 
raged men could do : — 
Only some, who loved poor Ireland, but who 

erred in doubting you. 
Doubting you, who could not tell them why you 

spake the strange behest — 
You, who saw the day was coming when the 

moral strength was best — 
You, whose hearts were sore with looking on your 

country's quick decay — 
You, whose chapel seats were empty and your 

people fled away — 
You, who marked amid the fields where once the 

peasant's cabin stood — 



120 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

You, who saw your kith and kindieLl swell the 

emigration flood — 
You, the sog garth in the famine, and the helper 

in the frost — 
You, whose shadow was a sunshine when all 

other hope was lost — 
Yes, they doubted — and you knew it — but you 

never said a word ; 
Onl}^ preached, "Be still: be patient I " and, 

thank God, 3"our voice was heard. 

Now, the day foreseen is breaking — it has 
dawned upon the land, 

And the priests still preach in Ireland : do they 
bid their flocks disband ? 

Do they tell them still to sufl'er and be silent? 
No ! their words 

Flash from Dublin Bay to Connaught, brighter 
than the gleam of swords ! 

Flash from Donegal to Kerry, and from Water- 
ford to Clare, 

And the nationhood awaking thrills the sorrow- 
laden air. 



THE PRIESTS OF IRELAND. 121 

Well tliey judged their time — they waited till the 

bar was 2:lowino: white, 
Then they swung it on the anvil, striking down 

with earnest might. 
And the burning sparks that scatter lose no 

lustre on their waj^ 
Till five million hearts in Ireland and ten millions 

far away 
Feel the first good blow, and answer ; and they 

will not rest with one : 
Now the first is struck, the anvil shows the labor 

well begun ; 
Swing them in w^ith lusty sinew and the work will 

soon be done ! 
Let them sound from hoary Cashel ; Kerry, 

Meath, and Ross stand forth ; 
Let them ring from Cloyue and Tuam and the 

Primate of the North ; 
Ask not class or creed : let "Ireland I " be the 

talismanic w^ord ; 
Let the blessed sound of unity from North to 

South be heard ; 



122 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Carve the words : " Xo creed distinctions ! " on 

O'CoDnell's granite tomb, 
And his dust will feel their meaning and rekindle 

in the gloom. 
Priest to priest, to sound the summons — and the 

answer, man to man ; 
With the people round the standard, and the 

prelates in the van. 
Let the heart of Ireland's hoping keep this golden 

rule of Cloyne 
Till the Orange fades from Derry and the shadow 

from the Boyne. 
Let the words be carried outward till the farthest 

lands they reach : 
"After Christ, their countrv's freedom do the 

Irisli prelates preach ! " 



RELEASED. 1 23 



RELEASED— JANUARY, 1878.* 

'THHEY are free at last I They can face the 
sun ; 
Their hearts now throb with the world's 
pulsation ; 
Their prisons are open — their night is done ; 
'Tis England's mercy and reparation ! 

The years of their doom have slowly sped — 

Their limbs are withered — their ties are riven ; 
Their children are scattered, their friends are 
dead — 
But the prisons are open — the "crime" for- 
given. 

* On the 5tli of January, 1878, three of the Irish political 
prisoners, who had been confined since 1866, were set at lib- 
erty. The released men were received by their fellow-country- 
men in London. *' They are well," said the report, " but they 
look prematurely old." 



124 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

God I what a threshold they stand upon : 

The world has passed ou '^hile they were 
buried ; 
In the glare of the sun they walk alone 

Oil the grass-grown track where the crowd has 
hurried. 

Haggard and broken and seared with pain, 

They seek the remembered friends and places ; 

Men shuddering turn, and gaze again 
At the deep-drawn lines on their altered faces. 

What do they read on the pallid page ? 

"What is the tale of these woful letters ? 
A lesson as old as their country's age, 

Of a love that is stronger than stripes and 
fetters. 

In the blood of the slain some dip their blade, 
And swear by the stain the foe to follow : 

But a deadlier oath might here be made, 
On the wasted bodies and f ices hollow. 



RELEASED. 125 

Irishmen ! You who have kept the peace — • 
Look on these forms diseased and broken : 

Believe, if you can, that their late release, 

When their lives are sapped, is a good-will 
token. 

Their hearts are the bait on England's hook ; 

For this are they dragged from her hopeless 
prison ; 
She reads her doom in the Nations' book — 

She fears the day that has darkly risen ; 

She reaches her hand for Ireland's aid — 
Ireland, scourged, contemned, derided; 

She begs from the beggar her hate has made ; 
She seeks for the strength her guile divided. 

She offers a bribe — ah, God above ! 

Behold the price of the desecration : 
The hearts she has tortured for Irish love 

She brings as a bribe to the Irish nation I 



126 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

O, blind and cruel I She fills her cup 

With conquest and pride, till its red wine 
splashes : 

But shrieks at the draught as she drinks it up — 
Her wine has been turned to blood and ashes. 

We know her — our Sister I Come on the storm ! 

God send it soon and sudden upon her : 
The race she has shattered and sought to deform 

Shall laugh as she drinks the black dishonor. 



THE PATRIOTS GRAVE. 12 J 



THE PATRIOT'S GRAVE. 

READ AT THE EMMET CENTENNIAIi IN BOSTON, MARCH 4, 

1878. 

[" I am going to my cold and silent grave — my lamp of life 
is nearly extinguished. I have parted with everything that 
was dear to me in this life for my country's cause — with the 
idol of my soul, the object of my affections : my race is run, 
the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom! I 
have but one request to make at ray departure from this world 
— it is the charity of its silence I Let no man write my epi- 
taph ; for, as no man who knows my motives dare now vindi- 
cate them, let not ignorance nor prejudice asperse them. Let 
them rest in obscurity and peace! Let my memory be left in 
oblivion, and my tomb uninscribed, until other times and 
other men can do justice to my character. When my country 
takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not 
till then, let my epitaph be written." — Speech of Robert 
Emmet in the Dock.] 



T 



I. 

EAR down the crape from the column I Let 

the shaft stand white and fair I 



Be silent the wailing music — there is no death 

in the air I 
We come not in plaint or sorrow — no tears may 

dim our sight : 
We dare not weep o'er the epitaph we have not 

dared to write. 



128 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Come hither with glowing faces, the sire, the 

youth, and the child ; 
This grave is a shrine for reverent hearts and 

hands that are uudefiled : 
Its ashes are inspiration ; it giveth us strength to 

bear, 
And sweepeth away dissension, and uerveth the 

will to dare. 

In the midst of the tombs, a Gravestone — and 

written thereon no word ! 
And behold, at the head of the grave, a gibbet, a 

torch, and a sword ! 
And the people kneel by the gibbet, and pray by 

the nameless stone 
For the torch to be lit, and the name to be writ, 

and the sword's red work to be done I 

II. 

AVith pride and not with grief 
"We lay this century leaf 
Upon the tomb with hearts that do not falter: 



THE PATRIOT S GRAVE. 1 29 

A few brief, toiling years 
Since fell the nation's tears, 
And lo, the patriot's gibbet is an altar I 

The people that are blest 

Have him they love the best 
To mount the martyr's scaffold when they need 
him ; 

And vain the cords that bind 

While the nation's steadfast mind, 
Like the needle to the pole, is true to freedom I 



ni. 

Three j^owers there are that dominate the 
world — 
Fraud, Force, and Right — and two oppress the 
one : 
The bolts of Fraud and Force like twins are 
hurled — 
Against them ever standeth Right alone. 



130 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Cyclopian strokes the brutal allies give : 

Their fetters massive and their dungeon walls ; 

Beneath their yoke, weak nations cease to live, 
And valiant Right itself defenceless fiills ! 

Defaced is law, and justice slain at birth ; 

Good men are broken — malefactors thrive ; 
But, when the tj^rants tower o'er the earth. 

Behind their wheels strong right is still alive ! 

Alive, like seed that God's own hand has sown — 
Like seed that lieth in the lowly furrow. 

But springs to life when wintry winds are blown : 
To-day the earth is gray — 'tis green to- 
morrow* 

The roots strike deep despite the rulers' power. 
The plant grows strong with summer sun and 
rain. 

Till Autumn bursts the deep red-hearted flower, 
And freedom marches to the front a^^ain I 



THE PATRIOT S GRAVE. I 3 I 

While slept the right, and reigned the dual 
wrong, 
Unchanged, unchecked, for half a thousand 
years, 
In tears of blood we cried, *'0 Lord, how long?" 
And even God seemed deaf to Erin's tears. 

But when she lay all weak and bruised and 
broken, 
Her white limbs seared with cruel chain and 
thorn — 
As bursts the cloud, the lightning word was 
spoken, 
God's seed took root — His crop of men was 
born ! 

With one deep breath began the land's progres- 
sion : 
On every field the seeds of freedom fell : 
Burke, Grattan, Flood, and Curran in the ses- 
sion — 
Fitzgerald, Sheares, and Emmet in the cell I 



132 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Such teachers soon aroused the dormant nation — 

Such sacrifice insured the endless fight : 
The voice of Grattan smote wrong's domina- 
tion — 
The death of Emmet sealed the cause of 
right I 

IV. 

Eichest of gifts to a nation I Death with the 

living crown I 
Type of ideal manhood to the people's heart 

brou2:ht down I 

Fount of the hopes we cherish — Test of the 

things we do ; 
Goro^on's face for the traitor — Talisman for the 

true I 

Sweet is the love of a woman, and sweet is the 

kiss of a child ; 
Sweet is the tender strength, and the bravery of 

the mild ; 



THE PATRIOT'S GRAVE. I33 

But sweeter than all, for embracing all, is the 

young life's peerless price — 
The 3-oung heart laid on the altav, as a nation's 

sacrifice. 

How can the debt be cancelled? Prayers and 

tears w^e may give — 
But how recall the anguish of hc4it^ that have 

ceased to live ? 

Flushed with the pride of genius — G[}\^ '^'Ah. the 

strencrth of life - ~ 
Thrilled with delicioua \)5^ssion for her wul- x^ould 

be his w^ife — 

This was the heart h^ PiTored — the upright life 

he gave - — 
This is the silent sermon c»i' the patriot's nameless 

grave. 

Shrine of a nation's honor - «toiie left blank foi 
a name — 



134 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Light on the dark horizon to guide us clear from 
shame — 

Chord struck deep with the keynote, telling us 

what can save — 
"A nation among the nations," or forever a 

nameless grave. 

Such is the will of the martyr — the burden we 

still must bear ; 
But even from death he reaches the legacy to 

share : 

He teaches the secret of manhood — the watch- 
word of those who aspire — 

That men must follow freedom though it lead 
through blood and fire ; 

That sacrifice is the bitter draught which freemen 

still must quaflf — 
That every patriotic life is the patriot's epitaph. 



JOHN MITCHEL. 1 2$ 



JOHN MITCHEL. 

DIED MARCH 20, 1875. 
I. 

T^EAD, with his harness on him: 

Rigid and cold and white, 
Marking the place of the vanguard 
Still in the ancient fight. 

The climber dead on the hill-side, 
Before the height is won : 

The workman dead on the building. 
Before the work is done I 

O, for a tongue to utter 

The words that should be said — 
Of his worth that was silver, living, 

That is gold and jasper, dead I 



136 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Dead — but the death was fitting: 

His life, to the latest breath, 
Was poured like wax on the chart of right, 

And is sealed by the stamp of Death ! 

Dead — but the end was fittinsj : 

First in the ranks he led ; 
And he marks the height of his nation's gain, 

As he lies in his harness — dead ! 



n. 

Weep for him, Ireland — mother lonely; 

Weep for the son who died for thee. 
Wayward he was, but he loved thee only, 

Loyal and fearless as son could be. 
Weep for him, Ireland — sorrowing nation 

Faithful to all who are true to thee : 
Never a son in thy desolation 

Had holier love for thy cause than he. 



JOHN MITCIIEL. 1 37 

Sons of the Old Land, mark the story — 

Mother and son in the final test : 
Weeping she sits in her darkened glory, 

Holding her dead to her stricken breast. 
Only the dead on her knees are lying — 

Ah, poor mother beneath the Cross ! 
Strength is won by the constant trying, 

Crowns are gemmed by the tears of loss I 

Sons of the Old Laud, mark the story — 

Mother and son to each other true : 
She called, and he answered, old and hoary, 

And gave her his life as a man should do. 
She may weep — but for us no weeping: 

Tears are vain till the work is done ; 
Tears for her — but for us the keeping 

Our hearts as true as her faithful son. 



138 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



A NATION'S TEST. 

READ AT THE O'COXNELL CEXTEXNLLL IX BOSTON, ON 
AUGUST 6, 1875. 

I. 

A NATION'S greatness lies in men, not 
acres ; 
One master-mind is worth a million hands. 
No royal robes have marked the planet-shakers, 
But Samson-strength to burst the ages' bands. 
The might of empire gives no crown supernal — 

Athens is here — but where is Macedon? 
A dozen lives make Greece and Rome eternal, 
And England's fame misrht safely rest on one. 

Here test and text are drawn from Nature's 
preaching : 

Afric and Asia — half the rounded earth — 
In teeming lives the solemn truth are teaching, 

That insect -millions may have human birth. 



A NATION'S TEST. 1 39 

Sun-kissed and fruitful, every clod is breeding 
A petty life, too small to reach the eye : 

So must it be, with no Man thinking, leading, 
The generations creep their course and die. 

Hapless the lands, and doomed amid the races. 

That give no answer to this royal test ; 
Their toiling tribes will droop ignoble faces, 

Till earth in pity takes them back to rest. 
A vast monotony may not be evil. 

But God's light tells us it cannot be good ; 
Valley and hill have beauty — but the level 

Must bear a shadeless and a stagnant brood. 



II. 

I bring the touchstone, Motherland, to thee. 
And test thee tr 3mbling, fearing thou shouldsi 
fail ; 

If fruitless, sonkss, thou wert proved to be. 
Ah, what would love and memory avail? 



140 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND B VLLADS. 

Brave land ! God has blest thee I 

Thy strong heart I feel, 
As I touch thee and test thee — 
Dear laud ! As the steel 
To the magnet flies upward, so rises thy breast, 
With a motherly pride to the touch of the test. 



ni. 

See! she smiles beueath the touchstone, looking 

on her distant youth, 
Looking down her line of leaders and of workers 

for the truth. 
Ere the Teuton, Norseman, Briton, left thp 

primal woodland spring, 
"When their rule was might and rapine, and their 

law a painted king ; 
When the sun of art and learning still was in the 

Orient ; 
When the pride of Babylonia under Cyrus' hand 

was shcnt ; 



A NATION S TEST. I4I 

When the sphinx's introverted eye turned fresh 

from Egypt's guilt ; 
When the Persian bowed to Athens ; when the 

Parthenon was built ; 
When the Macedonian climax closed the Com- 
monwealths of Greece ; 
When the wrath of Roman manhood burst on 

Tarquin for Lucrece — 
Then was Erin rich in knowledge — thence from 

out her Ollamh's store — 
Kenned to-day by students only — grew her 

ancient jSenchus More; * 
Then were reared her mighty builders, who made 

temples to the sun — 
There they stand — the old Round Towers — 

showing how their work was done : 



* " Sencbus More," or Great Laio, the title of the Brehon 
Laws, translated by O'Donovan and O' Curry. OUamh Fola, 
who reigned 900 years B.C., organized a triennial parliament 
at-Tara, of the chiefs, priests, and bards, who digested the 
laws into a record called the Psalter of Tara. Ollamh Fola 
founded schools of history, medicine, philosophy, poetry, and 
astronomy, which were protected by his successors. Kimbath 
(450 B.C.) and Ilugony (300 B.C.) also promoted the civil 
iuterests of the kingdom in a remarkable manner. 



142 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Thrice a thousand years upon them — shaming all 

our later art — 
Warninof finf^ers raised to tell us we must build 

with rev'rent heart. 



Ah, we call thee Mother Erin ! Mother thou in 

right of years ; 
Mother in the large fruition — mother in the joys 

and tears. 
All thy life has been a symbol — we can only 

read a part : 
God will flood thee yet with sunshine for the 

woes that drench thy heart. 
All thy life has been symbolic of a human 

mother's life : 
Youth's sweet hopes and dreams have vanished, 

and the travail and the strife 
Are upon thee in the present ; but thy work until 

to-day- 
Still has been for truth and manhood — and it 

shall not pass away : 



A nation's test. * 143 

Justice lives, though judgment lingers — angels' 

feet are heavy shod — 
But a planet's years are moments in th'^ eternal 

day of God 1 



IV. 

Out from the valley of death and tears, 
From the v^ar and want of a thousand years, 
From the mark of sword and the rust of chain, 
From the smoke and blood of the penal laws, 
The Irish men and the Irish cause 
Come out in the front of the field again I 

What sa3^s the stranger to such a vitality ? 
What says the statesman to this nationality ? 
Flung on the shore of a sea of defeat. 
Hardly the swimmers have sprung to their feet. 
When the nations are thrilled by a clarion-word. 
And Burke, the philosopher-statesman, is heard. 



144 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

AVhen shall his equal be? Down from the stellar 
height 

Sees he the planet and all on its girth — 
India, Columbia, and Europe — his eagle-sight 

Sweeps at a glance all the wrong upon earth. 
Races or sects were to him a profanit}^ : 

Hindoo and Negro and Kelt were as one ; 
Large as mankind was his splendid humanity, 

Large in its record the work he has done. 



V. 

"What need to mention men of minor note, 

When there be minds that all the heights 
attain ? 
"What school-boy knoweth not the hand that wrote 

" Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain" ? 
What man that speaketh English e'er can lift 

.His voice 'mid scholars, who hath missed the lore 
Of Berkele}^ Curran, Sheridan, and Swift, 

The art of Foley and the songs of Moore ? 



A NATION S TEST. 1 45 

Grattan and Flood and Emmet — where is he 
That hath not learned respect for such as these ? 

Who loveth humor, and hath yet to see 
Lover and Prout and Lever and Maclise ? 



VI. 

Great men grow greater by the lapse of time : 
We know those least whom we have seen the 
latest ; 
And they, 'mongst those w^hose names have 
grown sublime, 
Who worked for Human Liberty, are greatest. 

And now for one who allied will to work, 

And thought to act, and burning speech to 
thought ; 
Who gained the prizes that were seen by 
Burke — 
Burke felt the wronir — O'Connell felt, and 
fought. 



146 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Ever the same — from boyhood up to death : 
His race was crushed — his people were 
defamed ; 
Fie found the spark, and fanned it with his 
breath, 
And fed the fire, till all the nation flamed ! 

He roused the farms — he made the serf a 
yeoman ; 

He drilled his millions and he faced the foe ; 
But not with lead or steel he struck the foeman : 

Reason the sword — and human rio^ht the blow. 



'O' 



He fouijht for home — but no land-limit boimded 
O'Connell's faith, nor curbed his sympathies; 

All wrong to liberty must be confounded. 

Till men were chainless as the winds and seas. 

He fought for faith — but with no narrow spirit ; 

With ceaseless hand the bigot laws he smote ; 
One chart, he said, all mankind should inherit, — 

The right to worship and the right to vote. 



A NATION S TEST. 1 47 

Always the same — but yet a glinting prism : 
In wit, law, statecraft, still a master-band ; 

An "uncrowned king," wbose people's love was 
chrism ; 
His title — Liberator of his Land ! 

"Ilis heart's in Rome, his spirit is in heaven" — 
So runs the old song that his people sing ; 

A tall Round Tower they builded in Glasnevin — 
Fit Irish headstone for an Irish king I 



VII. 

O Motherland ! there is no cause to doubt thee : 
Thy mark is left on every shore to-day. 

Though grief and wrong may cling like robes 
about thee. 
Thy motherhood will keep thee queen alway. 

In faith and patience working, and believing 
Not power alone can make a noble state : 



148 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Whate'er the laud, though all thiugs else con- 
ceivhig, 

Uuless it breed great men, it is uot great. 
Go on, dear laud, and midst the generations 

Send out strong men to cry the word aloud ; 
Thy niche is empty still amidst the nations — 

Go on in faith, and God must raise the cloud. 



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 1 49 



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 

r ONG time ago, from Amsterdam a vessel sailed 

-■— ' away, — 

As fair a ship as ever flung aside the laughing 

spray. 
Upon the shore were tearful eyes, and scarfs were 

in the air, 
As to her, o'er the Zuyder Zee, went fond adieu 

and prayer; 
And brave hearts, yearning shoreward fi'om the 

outward- going ship. 
Felt lingering kisses clinging still to tear-wet cheek 

and lip. 
She steered for some far eastern clime, and, as she 

skimmed the seas. 
Each taper mast was bending like a rod before tha 

breeze. 



150 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Her captain was a stalwart man, — an iron heart 

had he. — 
From childhood's days he sailed upon the rolling; 

Zuyder Zee : 
JTe nothing feared upon the earth, and scarcely 

heaven feared, 
He would have dared and done whatever mortal 

man had dared ! 
He looked aloft, where high in air the pennant cut 

the blue. 
And every rope and spar and sail was firm and 

sti'ong and true. 
He turned him from the swelling sail to gaze upon 

the shore, — 
Ah ! little thought the skipper then 'twould meet 

his eye no more : 
He dreamt not that an awful doom was hanging 

o'er his ship, 
Tliat Vanderdecken's name would yet make pale 

the speaker's hp. 
The vessel bounded on her way, and spire and 

dome went down, — 



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. I5I 

Ere darkness fell, beneath the wave had sunk the 

distant town. 
No more, no more, ye hapless crew, shall Holland 

meet your eye. 
In lingering hope and keen suspense, maid, wife, 

and child shall die ! 

Away, away the vessel speeds, till sea and sky 

alone 
Are round her, as her course she steers across the 

torrid zone. 
Away, until the North Star fades, the Southern 

Cross is high, 
And myriad gems of brightest beam are sparkling 

in the sky. 
The tropic winds are left behind ; she nears the 

Cape of Storms, 
Vv^here awful Tempest ever sits enthroned in wild 

alarms ; 
Where Ocean in his anger shakes aloft his foamy 

crest, 
Disdainful of the weakly toys that ride upon his 

breast. 



152 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Fierce swell the winds and waters round the Dutch- 
man's gallant ship, 

But, to their rage, defiance rings from Yander- 
decken's lip : 

Impotent they to make him swerve, their might he 
dares desjjise. 

As straight he holds his onward course, and wind 
and wave defies. 

For days and nights he struggles in the wierd, 
unearthly fight. 

His brow is bent, his eye is fierce, but looks of deep 
affright 

Amongst the mariners go round, as hopelessly they 
steer : 

They do not dare to murmur, but they whisper 
what they fear. 

Their black-browed captain awes them : 'neath his 
darkened eye they quail, " 

And in a grim and sullen mood their bitter fate 
bewail. 

As some fierce rider ruthless spurs a timid, wav- 
ering liorse, 



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. I 53 

He drives his shapely vessel, and they watch the 

reckless course, 
Till once again their skipper's laugh is flung upon 

the blast : 
The placid ocean smiles be3^ond, the dreaded Cape 

is passed I 

Away across the Indian main the vessel northward 

glides ; 
A thousand murmuring ripples break along her 

graceful sides: 
The perfumed breezes fill her sails, — her destined 

port she nears, — 
The captain's brow has lost its frown, the mariners 

their fears. 
" Land ho ! " at length the welcome sound the 

watchful sailor sings. 
And soon within an Indian bay the ship at anchor 

swings. 
Not idle then the busy crew : ere long the spacious 

hold 
Is emptied of its western freight, and stored with 

silk and gold. 



134 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Again the ponderous anchor 's weighed ; the shore 
is left behind, 

The snowy sails are bosomed out before the favor- 
ing wind. 

Across the warm blue Indian sea the vessel south- 
ward flies, 

And once again the North Star fades and Austral 
beacons rise. 

For home she steers ! she seems to know and 
answer to the word, 

Ani swifter skims the bui-nished deep, like some 
fair ocean- bird. 

*' For home ! for home ! " the merry crew with 
gladsome voices cr}^, 

And dark-browed Vanderdecken has a mild light 
in his eye. 

But once again the Cape draws near, and furious 
billows rise ; 

And still the daring Dutchman's laugh the hurri- 
cane defies. 

But wildly slirieked the tempest ere the scornful 
sound had died, 



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 155 

A warning to the daring man to curb Ms impious 

pride. 
A crested mountain struck tlie ship, and like a 

frighted bird 
Sl]e trembled 'neath the awful shock. Then Van- 

derdecken heard 
A pleading voice within the gale, — his better an- 
gel spoke, 
But fled before his scowling look, as mast-high 

mountains broke 
Around the trembling vessel, till the crew with 

terror paled ; 
But Vanderdecken never flinched, nor 'neath the 

thunders quailed. 
With folded arms and stern-pressed lips, dark anger 

in his eye. 
He answered back the threatening frown that 

lowered o'er the sky. 
With fierce defiance in his heart, and scornful look 

of flame, 
He spoke, and thus with impious voice blaspliemed 

God's holy name : — 



156 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

" Howl on, ye winds ! ye tempests, liowl ! your 

rage is spent in vain : 
Despite your strength, your frowns, your hate, I *11 

ride upon the main. 
Defiance to your idle shrieks ! I '11 sail upon my 

path : 
I cringe not for thy Maker's smile, — I care not for 

His wrath ! " 

He ceased. An aw^ful silence fell: the tempest 
and the sea 

Were hushed in sudden stillness by the Ruler's 
dread decree. 

The ship w^as riding motionless within the gather- 
ing gloom ; 

The Dutchman stood upon the poop and heard his 
dreadful doom. 

The hapless crew Avere on the deck in swooning 
terror prone, — 

They, too, were bound in fearful fate. In angered 
thunder-tone 



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. I57 

Tb'"; judgment words swept o'er the sea : " Go, 

wretch, accurst, condemned ! 
Go rtVil for ever on the deep, by shrieking tempests 

hemmed. 
No home, no port, no calm, no rest, no gentle 

fav'ring breeze, 
Shall ever greet thee. Go, accurst! and battle 

with the seas ! 
Go, braggart ! struggle with the storm, nor ever 

cease to live, i 

But bear a million times the pangs that death and 

fear can give. 
Away ! and hide thy guilty head, a curse to all thy 

kind 
W]io ever see thee struggling, wretch, with ocean 

and with wmd. 
Away, presumptuous worm of earth ! Go teach 

thy fellow-worms 
The awful fate that waits on him who braves the 

King of Storms ! " 



158 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

'Twas o'er. A lurid lightning flash lit up the sea 
and sky 

Around and o'er the fated ship ; then rose a wail- 
ing cry 

From every heart within her, of keen anguish and 
despair; 

But mercy was for them no more, — it died away 
in air. 

Once more the lurid light gleamed out, — the ship 

was still at rest, 
The crew were standing at their posts ; with arms 

across his breast 
Still stood the captain on the poop, but bent and 

crouching now 
He bowed beneath that fiat dread, and o'er his 

swarthy brow 
Swept lines of anguish, as if he a thousand years 

ot pain 
Had lived and suffered. Then across the heaving, 

angry main 



THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. I 59 

The tempest shrieked triumphant, and the angry 

waters hissed 
Their vengeful hate against the toy they oftentimes 

had kissed. 
And ever through the midnight storm that hapless 

crew must speed ; 
They try to round the stormy Cape, but never can 

succeed. 
And oft when gales are wildest, and the lightning's 

vivid sheen 
Flashes back the ocean's anger, still the Phantom 

Ship is seen 
Ever sailing to the southward in the fierce tor- 
nado's swoop, 
With her ghostly crew and canvas, and her captain 

on the poop, 
Unrelenting, unforgiven ; and 'tis said that every 

word 
Of his blasphemous defiance still upon the gale is 

heard I 
But Heaven help the ship near which the dismal 

sailor steers, — 



l6o SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The doom of those is sealed to whom that Phan- 
tom Ship appears : 

They '11 never reach their destined port, — they 'U 
see their homes no more, — 

They who see the Flpng Dutchman — never, 
never reach the shore ! 



UNCLE NED's tale. i6i 



UNCLE NED'S TALE. 

AN OLD dragoon's STORY. 

OFTEN, musing, wander back to days long 

since gone by, 
And far-off scenes and long-lost forms arise to 

fancy's eye. 
A group familiar now I see, who all but one are 

fled,— 
My mother, sister Jane, myself, and dear old Uncle 

Ned. 
I '11 tell you how I see them now. First, mother 

in her chair 
Sits knitting by the parlor fire, with anxious matron 

air ; 
My sister Jane, just nine years old, is seated at her 

feet. 
With look demure, as if she, too, were thinking 

how to meet 



1 62 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The butcher's or the baker's bill, — though not a 
thought has she 

Of aught beside her girlish toys ; and next to her 
I see 

Myself, a sturdy lad of twelve, — neglectfid of the 
book 

That open lies upon my knee, — my fixed admir- 
ing look 

At Uncle Ned, upon the left, whose upright, mar- 
tial mien. 

Whose empty sleeve and gray moustache, proclaim 
what he has been. 

My mother I had always loved; my father then 
was dead ; 

But 'twas more than love — 'twas worship — I felt 
for Uncle Ned. 

Such tales he had of battle-fields, — the victory 
and the rout, 

The ringing cheer, the dpng shriek, the loiid 
exulting shout I 

And how, forgetting age and wounds, his eye 
would kindle bright, 



UNCLE NED's tale. 1 6^ 

\Mien telling of some desperate ride or close and 

deadly fight ! 
But oft I noticed, in tlie midst of some wild martial 

tale, 
To which I lent attentive ear, my mother's cheek 

grow pale : 
She sighed to see my kindled look, and feared I 

might be led 
To follow in the wayward steps of poor old Uncle 

Ned. 
But with all the wondrous tales he told, 'twas 

strange I never heard 
Of his last fight, for of that day he never spoke a 

word. 
And yet 'twas there he lost his arm, and once he 

e'en confessed 
'Twas there he won the glittering cross he wore 

upon his breast. 
rt hung the centre of a group of Glory's emblems 

fair, 
And royal hands, he told me once, had placed the 

bauble there. 



164 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Eiicli day that passed I hungered more to hear 
about that fight, 

And oftentimes I prayed in vain. At length, one 
winter's night, — 

The very night I speak of now, — with more than 
usual care 

I filled his i)ipe, then took my stand beside my 
uncle's chair: 

I fixed my eyes upon the Cross, — he saw my youth- 
ful plan ; 

And, smiling, laid the pipe aside and thus the tale 
began : — 



(( 



Well, boy, it was in summer time, and just at 

morning's light 
We heard the ' Boot and Saddle I ' sound : the foe 

was then in sight. 
Just winding round a distant hill and opening on 

the plain. 
Each trooper looked with careful eye to girth and 

curb and rein. 



UNCLE NED S TALE. 1 65 

We snatched a hasty breakfast, — we were old 

campaigners then ; 
That morn, of all onr splendid corps, we 'd scarce 

one hundred men ; 
But they were soldiers, tried and true, who 'd 

rather die than yield: 
The rest were scattered far and wide o'er many a 

hard-fought field. 
Our trumpet now rang sharply out, and at a 

swinging pace 
We left the bivouac behind ; and soon the eye 

could trace 
The columns moving o'er the plain. Oh ! 'twas a 

stirring sight 
To see two mighty armies there preparing for the 

fight : 
To watch the heavy masses, as, with practised, 

steady wheel, 
They opened out in slender lines of brightly flash- 
ing steel. 
Our place was on the farther flank, behind some 

rising ground, 



1 66 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

That hid the stirring scene from view ; but soou a 

booming sound 
Proclaimed the opening of the fight. Then war's 

loud thunder rolled, 
And hurtling shells and whistling balls their deadly 

messag^e told. 
We hoped to have a gallant day ; our hearts were 

all aglow ; 
We longed for one wild, sweeping charge, to chase 

the flpng foe. 
Our troopers marked the hours glide by, but still 

no orders came : 
They clutched their swords, and muttered words 

'twere better not to name. 
For hours the loud artillery roared, — the sun was 

at its height, — 
Still there we lay behind that hill, shut out from 

all the fight I 
We heard the maddened charging yells, the ringin<^ 

British cheers, 
And all the din of glorious war kept sounding in 

our ears. 



UNCLE NED's tale. 1 67 

Our hearts with fierce impatience throbbed, we 

cursed the very hill 
That hid the sight ; the evening fell, and we were 

idle still. 
The horses, too, were almost wild, and told with 

angry snort 
And blazing eye their fierce desire to join the 

savage sport. 
When lower still the sun had sunk, and with it 

all our hope, 
A horseman, soiled with smoke and sweat, came 

dashing down the slope. 
He bore the wished-for orders. ' At last ! ' our 

Colonel cried ; 
And as he read the brief despatch his glance was 

filled with pride. 
Then he who bore the orders, in a low, emphatic 

tone, 
The stern, expressive sentence spoke, — ' Se said it 

must he done ! ' - 
' It shall be done ! ' our Colonel cried. * Men, look 

to strap and girth, 



l6S SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

We \e work to do this day will prove what every 

man is worth ; 
Ay, work, my lads, will make amends for all our 

long delay, — 
The General says on us depends the fortune of the 

day!' 

" No order needed we to mount, — each man was 

in his place. 
And stern and dangerous was the look on every 

veteran face. 
We trotted sharply up the hill, and halted on the 

brow. 
And then that glorious field appeared. Oh I lad, 

I see it now ! 
But little time had we to spare foi idle gazing then : 
Beneath us, in the valley, stood a dark-clad mass of 

men : 
It cut the Britibh line in two. Our Colonel shouted, 

' There ! 
Behold your work I Our orders are to charge and 

Irreak that square I * 



UNCLE NED's tale. 1 69 

Each trooper dre\v a heavy breath, then gathered 

up his reins, 
And pressed tlie liehnet o'er his brow ; the horses 

tossed their manes 
In protest fierce against the curb, and spurned the 

springy healh, 
Impatient for the trumpet's sound to bid them rush 

to death. 

" Well, boy, that moment seemed an hour : at last 

we heard the words, — 
' Dragoons ! I know you '11 follow me. Ride steady, 

men ! Draw swords ! ' 
The trumpet sounded : off we dashed, at first with 

steady pace. 
But growing swifter as we went. Oh! 'twas a 

gallant race ! 
I'loee-fourths the ground was left behind: the loud 

and thrilhng ' Charge I ' 
Rang out ; but, fairly frantic now, we needed not 

to urge 



I/O SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. . 

With voice or rein our gallant steeds, or touch 

Iheii* foaming flanks. 
They seemed to fly. Now straight in- front appeared 

the kneelmg ranks. 
Above them waved a standard broad : we saw theii 

rifles raised, — 
A moment more, with awful crash, the deadly 

volley blazed. 
The bullets wliistled through our ranks, and many 

a trooper fell ; 
But we were left. What cared we then ? but on- 
ward rushing still ! 
Again the crash roared fiercely out ; but on I still 

madly on ! 
We heard the shrieks of djTJig men, but recked not 

who was gone. 
We gored the horses' foaming flanks, and on through 

smoke and glare 
We wildly dashed, with clenched teeth. We had 

no thought, no care I 
Then came a sudden, sweeping rush. Again with 

savage heel 



UNCLE NED'S tale. I /I 

I struck HI}' horse : with a^yful hound he rose right 
o'er theu^ steel I 

" Well, hoy, I cannot tell you how that dreadful 

leap was made, 
But theie I rode, inside the square, and grasped a 

reeking hlade. 
I cared not that I was alone, my eyes seem filled 

with hlood : 
I never thought a man could feel in such a mur- 
derous mood. 
I parried not, nor guarded thrusts ; I felt not pain 

or wound, 
But madly spurred the frantic horse, and swept my 

sword around. 
I tried to reach the standard sheet; but there at 

last was foiled. 
The gallant horse was jaded now, and from the 

steel recoiled. 
They saw his fright, and pressed him then : hia 

terror made him rear, 
And falling hack he crushed their ranks, and broke 
theu' guarded square ! 



1/2 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

My coini'ades saw the gap he made, and soon came 

dashing in ; 
They raised me up, — I felt no hurt, but laingled 

in the din. 
I 'd seen some fearful work before, but never was 

engaged 
lu such a wild and savage fight as now around me 

racked. 
The foe had ceased their firing, and now plied the 

deadly steel : 
Though all our men were wounded then, no pain 

they seemed to feel. 
No groans escaped from those who fell, but horrid 

oaths instead, 
And scowling looks of hate were on the features 

of the dead. 
The fight was round the standard : though outnum- 
bered ten to one, 
We held our ground, — ay, more than that, — we 

still kept pushing on. 
Our men now made a desperate rush to take the 

flag by storm. 



UNCLE NEDS TALE. 1/3 

I seized the pole, a blow came down and crushed 

my outstretched arm. 
I felt a sudden thrill of pain, but that soon passed 

away; 
And, with a devilish thirst for blood, again I joined 

the fray. 
At last we rallied all our strength, and charged o'er 

heaps of slain : 
Some fought to death ; some wavered, — then fled 

across the plain. 

" Well, boy, the rest is all confused : mere was a 

fearful rout ; 
I saw our troopers chase the foe, and heard their 

maddened shout. 
Then came a blank : my senses reeled, I know not 

how I fell ; 
I seemed to grapple with a foe, but that I cannot 

tell. 
My mind was gone : when it came back I saw the 

moon on high ; 
Around me all was stUl as death. T gazed up at 

the sky, 



1/4 SONGb, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And watched the gluxunering stars above, — -kj 

quiet did they seem, — 
And all that dreadful field appeared like some wild, 

fearful dream. 
But memory soon came back again, and cleared my 

wandering brain, 
And then from every joint and limb shot fiery darts 

of pain. 
My throat was parched, the burning thirst increased 

with every breath ; 
I made no effort to arise, but wished and prayed for 

death. 
My bridle arm was broken, and lay throbbing on 

the sward, 
But something still my right hand grasped : 1 

thought it was my sword. 
I raised my hand to cast it off, — no reeking blade 

was there ; 
Then life and strength returned, — I held the 

Standard of the Square ! 
With bounding heart I gained my feet. Oh I thee 

I wished to live, 



UNXLE NEDS TALE. 175 

'Twas strange the strength and love of life that 
standard seemed to give! 

I gazed around : far down the vale I saw a camp- 
fire's glow. 

With wandering step I ran that way, — I recked 
not friend or foe. 

Though stumbling now o'er heaps of dead, now 
o'er a stiffened horse, 

I heeded not, but watched the light, and held my 
onward course. 

But soon that flash of strength had failed, and 
checked my feverish speed ; 

Again my throat was all ablaze, my wounds began 
to bleed. 

I knew that if I fell again, my chance of life was 
gone, 

So, leaning on the standard-pole, I still kept strug- 
gling on. 

At length I neared the camp-fire : there were scar- 
let jackets round, 

An<.l swords and brazen helmets lay strewn upon 
the ground. 



176 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Some distance off, in order ranged, stood men, — 
about a score : 

God ! 'twas all that now remained of my old 

gallant corps I 
The muster-roll was being called: to every well- 
known name 

1 heard the solemn answer, — ' Dead ! ' At length 

my own turn came. 

1 paused to hear, — a comrade answered, ' Dead I 
I saw him fall ! ' 

I could not move another step, I tried in vain to call. 

My life was flowing fast, and all around was gather- 
ing haze, 

And o'er the heather tops I watched my comrades* 
cheerful blaze. 

I thought such anguish as I felt was more than man 
could bear. 

God ! it was an &,wful thing to die with help so 

near! 
And death was stealing o'er me : with the strength 
of wild despair 

1 raised the standard o'er my head, and waved it 

through the air. 



UNCLE NEDS TALE. 1 77 

Then all grew cliin : the fire, the men, all vanished 

from mj sight, 
My senses reeled ; I know no more of that eventful 

night. 
*Twas weeks before my mind came back : I knew 

not where I lay, 
But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades 

came each day. 
They told me how the waving flag that night had 

caught their eye, 
And how they found me bleeding there, and thought 

that I must die ; 
They brought me all the cheering news, — the war 

was at an end. 
No wonder 'twas, with all their care, I soon began 

to mend. 
The General came to see me, too, with all his bril- 
liant train. 
But what he said, or how I felt, to tell you now 

'twere vain. 
Enough, I soon grew strong again : the wished-foi 

route had come, 



1/8 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And all the gallant veteran troops set out witli 

cheers for home. 
We soon arrived ; and then, my lad, 'twould thnll 

your heart to hear 
How England welcomed home her sons with many 

a ringing cheer. 
But tush ! what boots it now to speak of what was 

said or done ? 
The victory was dearly bought, our bravest hearts 

were gone. 
Ere long the King reviewed us. Ah ! that memory 

is sweet ! 
They made me bear the foreign flag, and lay it nt 

his feet. 
I parted from my brave old corps : 'twere matter, 

lad, for tears. 
To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with 

for years. 
I was no longer fit for \rar, my wanderings had to 

cease. 
There, boy, I 've told you all my tales. Now let 

me smoke in peace." 



UNCLE NEDS TALE. 1/9 

How \dvid grows the picture now ! liow bright 

each scene appears ! 
I trace each loved and long-lost face with eyes be- 

dimmed in tears. 
How plain I hear thee, Uncle Ned, and see thy 

musing look, 
Comparing all thy glory to the curling wreaths of 

smoke ! 
A truer, braver soldier ne'er for king and country 

bled. 
His wanderinjTs are for ever o'er. God rest thee, 

Uncle Ned! 



l80 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



UNCLE NED'S TALES. 

HOW THE FLAG WAS SAVED.* 

*^T^WAS a dismal winter's evening, fast witiiont 

-^ came down the snow, 
But within, the cheerful fire cast a ruddy, genial 

glow 
O'er our pleasant little parlor, that was then my 

mother's pride. 
There she sat beside the glowing grate, my sister 

by her side ; 
And beyond, within the shadow, in a cosy little 

nook 
Uncle Ned and I were sitting, and in whispering 

tones we spoke. 
I was asking for a story he had promised me to 

tell,— 

• An incident from the record of the Enniskillen Dragoons in 
Spain, under General Picton. 



UNCLE NED's tales. i8i 

Of liis. comiiide, old Dick Hilton, liow he fouglit 
and liow he fell ; 

And with eager voice I presbed him, till a mighty 
final cloud 

Blew he slowly, then upon his breast his grisly 
head he bowed, 

And, musing, stroked his gray mustache ere he 
began to speak, 

Then brushed a tear that stole along his bronzed 
and furrowed cheek. 

" Ah, no ! I will not speak to-night of that sad 
tale," he cried : 

" Some other time I '11 tell you, boy, about that 
splendid ride. 

Your words have set me thinking of the many care- 
less years 

That comrade rode beside me, and have caused 
these bitter tears ; 

For I loved him, boy, — for twenty years we gal- 
loped rein to rein, — 

In peace and war, through all that time, stanch 
comrades had we been. 



1 82 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

As bojs we rode together when our soldiering first 

began, 
And in all those je^vs I knew him for a true and 

trusty man. 
One who never swerved from danger, — for he knew 

not how to fear, — 
If grim Death arrayed his legions, Dick would 

charge him with a cheer. 
He was happiest in a struggle or a wild and dan- 
gerous ride : 
Every inch a trooper was he, and he cared for 

uaua:ht beside. 
He was known for many a gallant deed : to-night 

I '11 tell 3'ou one, 
And no braver feat of arms was by a soldier ever 

done. 
'Twas when we were young and fearless, for 'twas 

in our first campaign, 
AYhen Ave galloped through the orange groves and 

fields of sunny Spain. 
Our wary old commander was retiring from the 

foe. 



UNCLE NED's tales. 1 83 

Who came pressing close upon us, witli a proud, 

exulting show. 
We could hear their taunting laughter, and within 

our very sight 
Did they ride defiant round us, — ay, and dared us 

. to the fight. 
But brave old Picton heeded not, but held his 

backward track, 
And smiling said the day would come to pay the 

Frenchmen back. 
And come it did : one morning, long before the 

break of day, 
We were standing to our arms, all ready for the 

coming fray. 
Soon the sun poured down his glory on the hostile 

lines arrayed. 
And his beams went flashing brightly back from 

many a burnished blade, 
Soon to change its spotless lustre for a reeking 

crimson stain. 
In some heart, then throbbing proudly, that will 

never throb again 



184 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

When that sun has reached his zenith, lift and 

pride will then have fled, 
And his beams will mock in splendor o'er the 

ghastly heaps of dead. 
Oh, 'tis sad to tliink how many but I wander, 

lad, I fear ; 
And, though the moral's good, I guess the tale 

you 'd rather hear. 
Well, I said that we were ready, and the foe was 

ready, too ; 
Soon the fight was raging fiercely, — thick and fast 

the bullets flew, 
With a bitter hiss of malice, as if hungry for the 

life 
To be torn from manly bosoms in the maddening 

heat of strife. 
Distant batteries were thundering, pouring grape 

and shell like rain, 
And the ciTiel missiles hurtled with their load of 

death and pain, 
Which they carried, like fell demons, to the heart 

of some brigade, 



UNCLE NED's tales. 1 85 

Where the siiddon, awful stillness told the havoo 

they had made. 
Thus the struggle raged till noon, and neither side 

could vantage show ; 
Tlien the tide of battle turned, and swept in favor 

of the foe ! 
Fiercer still the cannon thundered, — wilder 

screamed the grape and shell, — 
Onward pressed the French battalions, — back the 

British masses fell ! 
Then, as on its prey devoted, fierce the hungered 

vulture swoops, 
Swung the foeman's charging squadrons down upon 

our broken troops. 
Victory hovered o'er their standard, — on they 

swept with maddened shout. 
Spreading death and havoc round them, till retreat 

was changed to rout ! 
'Twas a saddening sight to witness ; and, when 

Picton saw them fly, 
Grief and shame were mixed and burning in the 

old commander's eye. 



1 86 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

We were riding in his escort, close behind him, on 

a height 
Which the fiital field commanded ; thence we 

viewed the growing flight. 

" But, my lad, I now must tell you something more 
about that hill, 

And I '11 try to make you see the spot as I can see 
it still. 

Right before us, o'er the battle-field, the fall was 
sheer and steep ; 

On our left the ground fell sloping, in a j^lC'^isant, 
grassy sAveep, 

Where the aides went dashing swiftl}-, bearing 
orders to and fro, 

For by that sloping side alone they reached the 
plain below. 

On our right — now pay attention, boy — a yawn- 
ing fissure lay, 

As if an earthquake's shock had sj^lit the moun- 
tain's side away. 

And in the dismal gulf, far down, we heard the 
angry roar 



UNCLE NED's tales. 1 87 

Of a foaming mountain torrent, that, mayliap, the 

cleft had wore, 
As it rushed for countless ages through its hlack 

and secret lair ; 
But no matter how 'twas formed, my lad, the 

yawning gulf was there. 
And from the farther side a stone projected o'er the 

gorge, — 
'Twas strange to see the massive rock just balanced 

on the verge ; 
It seemed as if an eagle's weight the ponderous 

mass of stone 
Would topple from its giddy height, and send it 

crashing^ down. 
It stretched far o'er the dark abyss ; but, though 

'twere footing good, 
*Twas twenty feet or more from off the side on 

which we stood. 
Beyond the cleft a gentle slope went down and 

joined the plain, — 
Now, lad, back to where we halted, and again 

resume the rein. 



1 88 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

I said our troops were routed. Far and near they 

broke and fled, 
The grape-shot tearing through them, leaving lanes 

of manoied dead. 
AH order lost, they left the fight, — they threv/ 

their arms away, 
And joined in one wild panic rout, — ah ! 'twas a 

bittex day ! 

" But did I say that all was lost? Nay, one brave 

corps stood fast, 
Determined they would never fly, but fight it to 

the last. 
They barred the Frenchman from his prey, and 

his whole fury braved, — 
One brief hour could they hold their ground, the 

army might be saved. 
Fresh troops were hurrying to cur aid, — we saw 

their glittering head, — 
Ah, God ! how those brave hearts were raked by 

the death-shower of lead ! 
But stand they did : they never flinched nor took 

one backward stride, 



UNCLE NED's tales. 1 89 

Tliey sent their bayonets home, and then with 

stubl)orn courage died. 
But few were left of that brave band when the 

dread hour had passed, 
Still, faint and few, they held their flag above them 

to the last. 
But now a cloud of horsemen, like a shadowy 

avalanche, 
Sweeps down : as Picton sees them, e'en his cheek 

is seen to blanch. 
They were not awed, that little band, but rallied 

once again, 
And sent us back a farewell cheer. Then burst 

from reckless men 
The anguished cry, ' God help them ! ' as we saw 

the feeble flash 
Of their last defiant volley, when upon them with 

a crash 
Burst the gleaming lines of riders, — one by one 

they disappear. 
And the chargers' hoofs are trampling on the last 

of that brave square ! 



1 90 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Ca swept the squadrons ! Then we looked whera 
last the band was seen : 

A scarlet heap was all that marked the place where 
they had been ! 

Still forward spurred the horsemen, eager to com 
plete the rout ; 

But our lines had been re-formed now, and five 
thousand guns belched out 

A reception to the squadrons, — rank on rank was 
piled that day, 

Every bullet hissed out ' Vengeance ! ' as it whis- 
tled on its way. 

" And now it was, with maddened hearts, we saw 

a galling sight : 
A French hussar was riding close beneath us on 

. the right, — 
He held a British standard I With insulting shout 

he stood, 
And waved the flag, — its heavy folds drooped 

down with shame and blood, — 
The blood of hearts unconquered : 'twas the flag 

of the stanch corps 



UNCLE NED's tales. IQI 

That had fought to death beneath it, — it was heavy 

with their gore. 
Tlie foreign dog I I see him as he holds the 

standard down, 
And makes his charger trample on its colors and 

its crown ! 
But his life soon paid the forfeit: with a cry of 

rage and pain, 
Hilton dashes from the escort, like a tiger from nis 

chain. 
Nought he sees but that insulter; and he strikes 

his frightened horse 
With his clenched hand, and spurs him, with a 

bitter-spoken curse. 
Straight as bullet from a rifle — but, great Lord ! 

he has not seen. 
In his angry thirst for vengeance, the black gulf 

that lies between ! 
All our warning shouts unheeded, starkly on he 

headlong rides, . 
And lifts his horse, with bloody spurs deep buried 

in his sides. 



192 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

God's mercj ! does he see the giilf? Ha ! now his 

purpose dawns 
Upon our minds, as nearer still the rocky fissure 

yawns : 
Where from the farther side the stone leans o'er 

the stream beneath, 
He means to take the awful leap! Cold horror 

checks our breath, 
And still and mute we watch him now : he nears 

the fearful place ; 
We hear him shout to cheer the horse, and keep 

the headlong pace. 
Then comes a rush, — short strides, — a blow ! — 

the horse bounds wildly on, 
Springs high in air o'er the abyss, and lands 

upon the stone ! 
It trembles, topples 'neath their weight ! it sinks I 

ha ! bravely done ! 
Another spring, — they gain the side, — the pon- 
derous rock is gone 
With crashing roar, a thousand feet, down to the 

flood below, 



UNCLE NED S TALES. I93 

And Hilton, heedless of its noise, is riding at the 
foe! 

'' The Frenchman stared, in wonder : he was brave, 
and would not run, 

'T would merit but a coward's brand to turn and 
fly from one. 

But still he shuddered at the glance from 'neath 
that knitted brow : 

He knew 'twould be a death fight, but there was 
no shrinking now. 

He pressed his horse to meet the shock : straight at 
him Hilton made, 

And as they closed the Frenchman's cut fell harm- 
less on his blade ; 

But scarce a moment's time had passed ere, spur- 
ring from the field, 

A troop of cuirassiers- closed round and called on 
him to yield 

One glance of scorn he threw them, — all his answer 
in a frown, — 

And riding at their leader with one sweep he cut 
him down ; 



194 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Then aimed at him who held the flag a cut of 

crushing might, 
And split him to the very chin I — a horrid, ghastly 

sight ! 
He seized the standard from his hand ; but now 

the Frenchmen close, 
And that stout soldier, all alone, fights with a 

hundred foes I 
They cut and cursed, — a dozen swords were whis- 

tUng round his head ; 
He could not guard on every side, — from fifty 

wounds he bled. 
His sabre crashed through helm and blade, aa 

though it were a mace ; 
He cut their steel cuirasses and he slashed them 

o'er the face. 
One tall dragoon closed on him, but he wheeled 

his horse around, 
And cloven through the helmet went the trooper 

to the ground. 
But his sabre blade was broken by the fury of tba 

blow, 



UNCLE NED S TALES. 1 95 

A.] id ho hurled the useless, bloody hilt against the 

nearest foe ; 
Then fuiled the colors round the pole, and, like a 

levelled lance, 
He charged with that red standard through the 

bravest troops of France! 
His horse, as lion-hearted, scarcely needed to be 

urged. 
And steed and rider bit the dust before him as he 

charged. 
Straight on he rode, and down they went, till he 

had cleared the ranks, 
Then once again he loosed the rein and struck his 

horse's flanks. 
A cheer broke from the French dragoons, — a loud, 

admiring shout ! — 
As off he rode, and o'er him shook the tattered 

colors out. 
Still might they ride him down : they scorned to fire 

or to pursue, — 
Brave hearts! they cheered him to our lines,— 

their army cheering, too I 



196 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And we — what did we do ? you ask. Well, boy, 

we did not cheer, 
Nor not one sound of welcome reached our hero 

comrade's ear ; 
But, as he rode along the ranks, each soldier's head 

was bare, — 
Our hearts were far too full for cheers, — we wel- 
comed him with prayer. 
Ah ! boy, we loved that dear old flag, — ay, loved 

it so, we cried 
Like children, as we saw it Avave in all its tattered 

pride ! 
No, boy, no cheers to greet him, though he played 

a noble j)art, — 
We only prayed ' God bless him ! ' but that prayer 

came from the heart. 
He knew we loved him for it, — he could see it in 

our tears, — 
And such silent earnest love as that is better, boy, 

than cheers. 
Next day we fought the Frenchman, and we drove 

him back, of course, 



UNCLE ned's tales. 1 97 

Though we lost some goodly soldiers, and old Pic- 
ton lost a horse. 

But there I 've said enough : your mother's warn- 
ing finger shook, — 

^lind, never be a soldier, boy I — now let me have 
a smoke." 



iq8 songs, legends, and ballads. 



HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 

IVTATIIAN BEANS and WilHam Lambert were 

two wild New England bojs, 
Known from infancy to revel only in forbidden 

joys. 

Many a mother of Nantucket bristled when she 

heard them come, 

With a horrid skulking whistle, tempting her good 

lad from home. 
But for all maternal bristling little did they seem to 

care. 
And they loved each other dearly, did this good-for- 
nothing pair. 

So they Hved till eighteen summers found them in 

the same repute, — 
They had well-developed muscles, and loose char* 

acters to boot. 



HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 1 99 

Then they did what wild Nantucket boys have 

never failed to do, — 
Went and filled two oily bunks among a whaler's 

oily crew. 
And the mothers, — ah ! they raised their hands 

and blessed the lucky day, 
While Nantucket waved its handkerchief to see 

them sail away. 

On a four years' cruise they started in the brave cid 

'* Patience Parr," 
And were soon initiated in the mysteries oi" tar. 
There they found the truth that whalers' tales are 

unsubstantial wiles,— 
They were sick and sore and sorry ere they passed 

the Western Isles ; 
And their captaiu, old-man Sculpiu, gave theic 

fancies little scope, 
For he argued with a marluispike and reasoned 

with a rope. 

But they stuck together bravely, they were Ish- 
maels with the crew: 



200 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

K'athan's voice was never raised but BilFs support 

was uttered too ; 
And whenever Beans was floored by Sculpin's cruel 

marlinspike, 
Down beside him went poor Lambert, for his hand 

was clenched to strike. 
So they passed two years in cruising, tiH one breath- 
less burning day 
The old " Patience Parr " in Sunda Straits * with 

flapping canvas lay. 
On her starboard side Sumatra's woods were dark 

beneath the glare, 
And on her port stretched Java, slumbering in the 

yellow air, — 
Slumbering as the jaguar slumbers, as the tropic 

ocean sleeps. 
Smooth and smiling on its surface with a devil in 

its deeps. 
So swooned Java's moveless forest, but the jungle 

round its root 



* The straits of Sunda, seven miles vide at tlie southern extremity, U« 
between Sumatra and Java. 



HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 201 

Knew the rustling anaconda and the tiger s padded 
foot. 

There in Nature's rankest garden, Nature's worst 
alone is rife, 

And a glorious land is wild-beast ruled for want of 
human life. 

Scarce a harmless thing moved on it, not a living 
soul was near 

From the frowning rocks of Java Head right north- 
ward to Anjier. 

Crestless swells, like wind-raised canvas, made the 
whaler rise and dip, 

Else she ^ay upon the water like a paralytic 
ship; 

And beneath a topsail awning lay the lazy, languid 
crew, 

Drinking in the precious coolness of the shadow, — 
all save two : 

Two poor Ishmaels, — they were absent. Heaven 
help them ! — roughly tied 

'Neath the blistering cruel sun-glare in the fore- 
chains, side by side. 



202 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Side by side as it was always, each one with a 

word of cheer 
For the other, and for his sake bravely choking 

back the tear. 
Side by side, their pain or pastime never yet seemed 

good for one ; 
But whenever pain came, each in secret wished the 

other gone. 

You who stop at home and saunter o'er your flower- 
scattered path, 

With life's corners velvet-cushioned, have you seen 
a tyrant's wrath ? — 

Wrath, the rude and reckless demon, not the 
drawing-room display 

Of an anger led by social lightning-rods upon its 
way. 

Ah ! my friends, wrath's raw materials on the land 
may sometimes be, 

But the manufactured article is only found at sea. 

And the wrath of old-man Sculpin was of texture 
Number One : 



HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 203 

Never absent, — when the man smiled it was hid- 
den, bat not gone. 

Old church-members of Nantucket knew him for a 
sliining lamp, 

But his chronic Christian spirit was of pharisaio 
stamp. 

When ashore, he prayed aloud of how he 'd sinned 
and been forgiven, — 

How his evil ways had brought him 'thin an ace of 
losing heaven ; 

Thank the Lord ! his eyes were opened, and so on ; 
but when the sliip 

Was just ready for a voyage, you could see old 
Sculpin's lip 

Have a sort of nervous tremble, like a carter's long- 
leashed whip 

Ere it cracks ; and so the skipper's lip was trem- 
bhng for an oath 

At the watch on deck for idleness, the watch below 
for sloth. 

For the leash of his anathemas was long enough for 
both. 



204 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Well, 't^yas biu-ning noon off Java: Beans and 

Lambert in the chains 
Sank their heads, and all was silent but the voices 

of their pains. 
Night came ere their bonds were loosened ; then 

the boys sank down and slept, 
And the dew in place of loved ones on theii 

wounded bodies wept. 

All was still within the whaler, — on the sea no 

famiing breeze. 
And the moon alone was moving over Java's gloomy 

trees. 
Midnight came, — one sleeper's waking glance went 

out the moon to meet : 
Nathan rose, and turned from Lambert, who still 

slumbered at his feet. 
Out toward Java went his \ision, as if something 

in the air 
Came with promises of kindness and of peace to 

be found there. 



HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 20$ 

Then towards the davits moved he, where the 
lightest whale-boat hung ; 

And he worked with silent caution till upon the 
sea she swung, 

When he paused, and looked at Lambert, and the 
spirit in him cried 

Not to leave hhn, but to venture, as since child- 
hood, side by side ; 

And the spirit's cry was answered, for he touched 
the sleeper's lip, 

Who awoke and heard of Nathan's plan to leave 
th' accursed ship. 

When 'twas told, they rose in silence, and looked 

outward to the land. 
But they only saw Nantucket, with its homely, 

boat-lined strand ; 
But they saw it — oh! so plainly — through the 

glass of coming doom. 
Then they crept into the whale-boat, and pulled 

toward the forest's gloom, — 
All theu' suffering clear that moment, like the 

moonliglit on theu' wake, 



206 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Now contracting, now expanding, like a phospho- 
rescent snake. 

Hours speed on : the dark horizon yet shows scarce 
a streak of gray 

When old Sculpin comes on deck to walk his rest- 
lessness away. 

All the scene is still and solemn, and mayhap the 
man's cold heart 

Feels its teaching, for the wild-beast cries from 
shoreward make him start 

As if they had warning in them, and he o'er its 
meaning pored. 

Till at length one shriek from Java splits the dark- 
ness like a sword ; 

And he almost screams in answer, such the nearness 
of the cry, 

As he clutches at the rigging with a horror in his 
eye. 

And with faltering accents mutters, as against the 
mast he leans, 

" Darn the tigers ! that one shouted with the voice of 
Nathan Beans!** 



HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 207 

When the boys were missed soon after, Sculpia 

never breathed a word 
Of his terror in the morning at the fearful sound 

he 'd heard ; 
But he entered in the log-book, and 'twas witnessed 

by the mates, 
Just their names, and following after, " Ran away 

in Sunda Straits." 

Two years after. Captain Sculpin saw again the 

Yankee shore, 
With the comfortable feeling that he 'd go to sea no 

more. 
And 'twas strange the way he altered when he saw 

Nantucket light : 
Holy lines spread o'er his face, and chased the old 

ones out of sight. 
And for many a year thereafter did his zeal spread 

far and wide, 
And with all his pious doings was the township 

edified ; 



208 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

For he led the sacred singing in an unctuous, nasal 

tone, 
And he looked as if the sermon and the Scriptures 

were his own. 

But one day the white-haired preacher spoke of 

how God's justice fell 
Soon or late with awful sureness on the man whose 

heart could tell 
Of a wrong done to the widow or the orphan, and 

he said 
That such wrongs were ever living, though the 

injured ones were dead. 
And old Sculpin's heart was writhing, though his 

heavy eyes were closed, — 
For, despite his solemn sanctity, at sermon times he 

dozed ; 
But his half-awakened senses heard the preacher 

speak of death 
And of wTongs done unto orphans, and he di-eamed 

with wheezuig breath 



HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 209 

That 03ld hands were tearing from his heart its 

pharisaic screens, 
That the preacher was a tiger with the voice of 

Nathan Beans ! 
And he shrieked and jumped up wildly, and upon 

the seat stood he, 
As if standing on the whaler looking outward on 

the sea; 
And he clutched as at the rigging with a horror in 

his eye. 
For he saw the woods of Java and he heard that 

human cry, 
As he crouched and cowered earthward. And the 

simjile folk around 
Stood with looks of kindly sympathy : they raised 

him from the ground, 
And they brought him half unconscious to the hiun- 

ble chapel door, 
Whence he fled as from a scourging, and he entered 

it no more ; 
For the sight of that old preacher brought the 

horror to his face, 



210 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And he dare not meet his neighbors' honest e^'es 

within the place, 
For his conscience like a mirror rose and showed 

the dismal scenes, 
Where the tiger yelled for ever with the voice of 

Nathan Beans. 



WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 



Nation of sun and sin^ 

Thy fiowers and crimes are red^ 
And thy heart is sore within 
While the glory crowns thy head. 
Land of the songless birds, 
What was thine ancient crime, 
Burning through lapse of time 
Like aprophefs cursing words % 

Aloes and myrrh, and tears 
Mix in thy hitter wine : 
Drink, while the cup is thine. 
Drink, for the draught is sign 
Of thy reign ii\ the coming yeam* 



PROLOGUE. 



^or gold nor silver are the words set here, 

Nor rich-wrought chasing on design of art; 
But rugged relics of an unknown sphere 

Where fortune chanced I played one time a part. 
TJnthought of here the critic blame or praise, 

Tliese recollections all their faults atone; 
To hold the scenes, I've writ of men and ways 

Uncouth and rough as Austral ironstone. 

It may he, I have left the higher gleams 

Of skies and flowers unheeded or forgot ; 
It may he so, — hut, looking hack, it seems 

When Iicas with them I heheld them not, 
I was no ramhling poet, hut a man 

Hard-pressed to dig and delve, with naught of eaeh 
The hot day through, save when the evening's fan 

Of sea-winds rustled through the kindly trees. 

It may he so ; hid when I think I smile 

At my poor hand and hrain to paint the charms 

Of God^sfirst-hlazoned canvas! here the aisle 
Moonlit and deep of reaching gothic arms 



From towering gum^ mahogany^ andpalm^ 
And odorous jam and sandal ; there the growth 

Of arm-long velvet leaves grown hoar in calm^ — 
In calm unbroken sijice their luscious- youth. 

Mow can I show you all the silent birds 

With strange metallic glintings on the wing f 
Or how tell half their sadness in cold words^ — 

The poor dumb lutes, the birds that never singf 
Of wondrous parrot-greens and iris hue 

Of sensuous flower and of gleaming snake, — 
Ah ! what 1 see I long that so might you, 

But of these things xohat picture can 1 make f 

Sometime, maybe, a man will wander there, — 

A mind God-gifted, and not dull and weak / 
And he will come and paint that land so fair. 

And show the beauties of which I but speak. 
Mut in the hard, sad days that there J spent. 

My mind absorbed rude pictures : these I show 
As best J may, and just with this iyitent, — 

To tell some things that all folk may not know. 



r 



WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 

r\ BEAUTEOUS Southland! land of yellow 
ail', 

That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and doth hold 
The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair 

And wooded hills, like aureole of gold. 

O thou, discovered ere the fitting time, 

Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth I 

Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. 

land, God made thee wondrous to the eye ! 

But His sweet singers thou hast never heard ; 
rie left thee, meaning to come by-and-bj^e. 

And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird. 

215 



2l6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

He painted with fresh hues thy myriad flowers. 
But left them scentless : ah ! their woful dole, 

Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers, — 
To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul. 

He gave thee ti-ees of odorous precious wood ; 

But, midst them all, bloomed not one tree of fruit. 
He looked, but said not that His work was good, 

When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey : every bell 
Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning wist ; 

But no bee-lover ever notes the swell 

Of hearts, like lips, a-huugering to be kist. 

strange land, thou art virgiQ ! thou art more 
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could paint 

For others' eyes the glory of the shore 

Where last I saw thee ; but the senses faint 



WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 21/ 

In soft delicious dreaming when they drain 
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art, 

AM sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain 

The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping 
heart. 



2l8 SONGS, LEGENDS. AND BALLADS. 



THE DUKITE SNAKE: 

A WEST AUSTEALIAJ?" BUSHMAN's STOSY. 

"\T 7ELL, mate, you've asked rue about a fello'W 

You met to-day, in a black-and-yellow 
Chain-gang suit, with a pedler's pack. 
Or with some such burden, strapped to his back. 
Did you meet him square ? No, passed you by ? 
Well, if you had, and had looked m his eye, 
You 'd have felt for your irons then and there j 
For the light in his eye is a madman's glare. 
Ay, mad, poor fellow ! I know him well. 
And if you 're not sleepy just yet, 1 11 tell 
His story, — a strange one as ever you heard 
Or read ; but I 'U vouch for it, every word. 

You just wait a minute, mate : I must see 
How that damper 's doing, and make some tea. 



THE DUKITE SNAKE. 219 

You smoke ? That 's good ; for there 's plenty of 

weed 
111 that wallaby skin. Does your horse feed 
111 the hobbles ? Well, he 's got good feed here, 
And my own old bushmare won't interfere. 
Done with that meat? Tlii'ow it there to tba 

dogs, , 

And fling on a couple of banksia logs. 

And now for the story. That man who goes 
Through the bush with the pack and the convict's 

clothes 
Has been mad for years ; but he does no harm, 
And our lonely settlers feel no alarm 
When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane 
Was a settler once, and a friend of my own. 
Some eight years back, in the spring of the year, 
Dave came from Scotland, and settled here. 
A splendid young fellow he was just then, 
And one of the bravest and truest men 
That I ever met : he was kind as a woman 
To all who needed a friend, and no man — • 



220 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Not even a convict — met ^itli his scorn, 

For Da^dd Sloane was a gentleman born. 

Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer ; 

There 's plenty of blue blood flowing out here. 

And some younger sons of youi- " upper ten '* 

Can be met with here, first-rate bushmeu. 

AVhy, friend, I — 

Bah ! curse that dog ! you se6 
Tliis talking so much has affected me. 

Well, Sloane came here with an axe and a gun ; 

He bought four miles of a sandal- wood run. 

Tliis bush at that time was a lonesome place, 

So lonesome the sight of a white man's face 

Was a blessing, unless it came at night. 

And peered in your hut, with the cunning fright 

Of a runaway convict ; and even they 

Were welcome, for talk's sake, while they coidd 

stay. 
Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned 
The tricks of the bush, — how the snare was laid 
In the wallaby track, how traps were made, 



THE DUKITE SNAKE. 221 

Uow 'possums and kangaroo rats were killed , 

And when that was learned, I helped him to build 

From mahogany slabs a good bush hut, 

And showed him how sandal- wood logs were cut. 

I lived up there with him days and days, 

For I loved the lad for his honest ways. 

I had only one fault to find : at first 

Dave worked too hard ; for a lad who was nursed, 

As he was, in idleness, it was strange 

How he cleared that sandal-wood off his range. 

From the morning light till the light expired 

He was always working, he never tired ; 

Till at length I began to think his will 

Was too much settled on wealth, and still 

When I looked at the lad's brown face, and eye 

Clear open, my heart gave such thought the lie. 

But one day — for he read my mind — he laid 

His hand on my shoulder : " Don't be afraid," 

Said he, " that I 'm seeking alone for pelf. 

I work hard, friend ; but 'tis not for myself." 

And he told me then, in his quiet tone, 
Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own, — 



222 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS, 

His wife, — 'twas for her : 'twas all he could say, 
And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away. 
A.fter that he told me the simple tale : 
They had married for love, and she was to sail 
For Anstraha when he wrote home and told 
The oft-watched-for story of finding gold. 

In a year he wrote, and his news was good : 
He had bought some cattle and sold liis wood. 
He said, '' Darling, I 'ye only a hut, — but come." 
Friend, a husband's heart is a true wife's home ; 
And he knew she 'd come. Then he turned his hand 
To make neat the house, and prepare the land 
For his crops and vines ; and he made that place 
Put on such a smiling and homelike face. 
That when she came, and he showed her round 
His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground, 
And spoke of the future, they cried for joy. 
The husband's arm claspmg his wife and boy. 

Well, friend, if a little of heaven's best bUss 
Ever comes from the upper world to this. 



THE DUKITE SNAKE. 223 

It came into that manly bushman's life, 

And circled him round with the arms of his wife. 

God bless that bright memory ! Even to me, 

A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be, 

While living, an angel of God's pure love, 

And now I could pray to her face above. 

And David he loved her as only a man 

With a heart as large as was his heart can. 

I wondered how they could have lived apart, 

For he was her idol, and she his heart. 

Friend, there isn't much more of the tale to tell : 
I v/as talking of angels awhile since. Well, 
Now I '11 change to a devil, — ay, to a de\il ! 
You need n't start : if a spirit of evil 
Ever came to tliis world its hate to slake 
On mankind, it came as a Dukite Snake. 

Like ? Like the pictures you Ve seen of Sin, 
A long red snake, — - as if what was within 
Was fire that gleamed through his glistening 
skin. 



224 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And his eyes I — if you could go down to hell 
And come back to your fellows here and tell 
What the fire was hke, 3'ou could find no thmg, 
Here below on the earth, or up in the sky, 
To compare it to but a Dukite's eye ! 

Now, mark you, these Dukites don't go alone: 
There 's another near when you see but one ; 
And beware jou. of killing that one you see 
Without finding the other ; for you may be 
]\Iore than twenty miles from the spot that night, 
When camped, but 3'Ou 're tracked by the lono 

Dukite, 
That will follow your trail like Death or Fate, 
And kill you as sure as you killed its mate ! 

Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife hero 
Three months, — 'twas just this time of the year. 
He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse, 
And was homeward bound, when he saw in the 

grass 
A long red snake : he had never been told 



THE DUKITE SNAKE. 22$ 

Of the Dukite's ways, — he jumped to the road, 
And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad I 

He was proud of the red skin, so he tied 

Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed 

The bush on the path he followed that night. 

He was early home, and the dead Duldte 
Was flung at the door to be skinned next day. 
At sunrise next morning he started away 
To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride 
Brought him back : he gazed on his home with pride 
And ]oj in his heart ; he jumped from his horse 
And entered — to look on his young wife's corse, 
And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes 
As in fright ; and there, as he gazed, arose 
From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming 

head 
Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said, 
^- I've had vengeance, mi/ foe: you took all Iliad,^ 

And so had the snake — David Sloane was mad I 



226 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

I rode to his hut just by chance that night, 
And there on the threshold the clear moonlight 
Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the 

door 
With an awful feehng of coming woe : 
The dead were stretched on the moonlit floor, 
The man held the hand of his wife, — his pride. 
His poor life's treasure, — and crouched by hei 

side. 

God ! I sank with the weight of the blow. 

1 touched and called him : he heeded me not, 
So I dug her grave in a quiet spot, 

And lifted them both, — her boy on her breast,— 
And laid them down in the shade to rest. 
Then I tried to take my poor friend away, 
But he cried so wofidly, '' Let me stay 
Till she comes again ! " that I had no heart 
To try to persuade him then to part 
From all that was left to him here, — her grave ; 
So I stayel by his side that night, and, save 
One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound, — 
O God ! that wail — like the wail of a hound I 



THE DUKITE SNAKE. 227 

'Tis SIX long years since I heard that cry, 

But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die. 

Since that fearful night no one has heard 

Poor David Sloane utter sound or word. 

You have seen to-day how he always goes : 

He 's been given that suit of convict's clothes 

By some prison officer. On his back 

You noticed a load like a pedler's pack? 

Well, that's what he lives for : when reason wentj 

Still memory lived, for his days are spent 

In searching for Dukites ; and year by year 

That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear 

That the Lord out of evil some good still takes ; 

For he 's clearing this bush of the Dukite snakes. 



228 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 



THE MONSTER DIAMOND: 

A TiLS OF THE PENAL COLONY OF WEST AUSTRALIA* 

''• T 'LL have it, I tell you ! Ciirse you ! — tLere ! '' 
The long knife glittered, was sheathed, and 
was bare. 
The sawyer staggered and tiipped and fell, 
And falling he uttered a frightened yell : 
His face to the sky, he shuddered and gasped. 
And tried to put from him the man he had grasped 
A moment before in the terrible strife. 
" I '11 have it, I tell you, or have your life ! 
Where is it ? " The sawj-er grew weak, but still 
His brown face gleamed mth a desperate will. 
" Where is it ? " he heard, and the red knife's diip 
In his slayer's hand fell down on his lip. 
" Will you give it ? " " Never ' '* A curse, the knife 
Was raised and buried. 



THE MONSTER DIAMOND. 229 

Thus closed the life 
Of Samuel Jones, known as " Number Ten" 
On his Ticket-of-Leave ; and of all the men 
In the Western Colony, bond or free, 
None had manlier heart or hand than he. 

In digging a sawpit, while all alone, — 

For his mate was sleeping, — Sam struck a stone 

With the edge of the spade, and it gleamed like 

fire. 
And looked at Sam from its bed in the mire. 
Till he di'opped the spade and stooped and raised 
The wonderful stone that glittered and blazed 
As if it were mad at the spade's rude blow ; 
But its blaze set the sawyer's heart aglow 
As he looked and trembled, then turned him round, 
And crept fi^om the pit, and lay on the ground, 
Looking over the mould-heap at the camp 
Where his mate still slept. Then down to the 

swamp 
He ran with the stone, and washed it bright. 
And felt like a drunken man at the sight 



230 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Or" a tiiamond pure as spring- water and sua, 
And larger than ever man's eyes looked on I 

Then down sat Sam with the stone on his kneeSj 

And fancies came to Mm, like swarms of bees 

To a sugar-creamed liive ; and he di'eamed awaka 

Of the carriage and four m wliich he 'd take 

His pals from the Dials to Drury Lane, 

The silks and the satins for Susan Jane, 

The countless bottles of brandy and beer 

He 'd call for and pay for, and every year 

The dinner he 'd give to the Brummagem lads, ~ 

He 'd be king among cracksmen and chief among 

pads. 
And he 'd sport a — , 

Over him stooped his mate, 
A pick in his hand, and his face all hate. 
Sam saw the shadow, and guessed the pick, 
And closed his dream with a sprhig so quick 
The purpose was bafiSed of Aaron Mace, 
Ajid the sawj^er mates stood face to face. 



THE MONSTER DIAMOND. 23 1 

Sam folded his arms across his chest, 

Having thrust the stone in his loose shht-breast, 

Wliile he tried to tliink where he dropped the spade. 

But Aaron Mace wore a long, keen blade 

In his belt, — he drew it, — sprang on his man : 

What happened, you read when the tale began. 

Then he looked — the murderer, Aaron Mace — 
At the gray-blue lines in the dead man's face ; ' 
And he turned away, for he feared its frown 
]\Iore in death than life. Then he knelt him down,— 
Not to pray, — but he slirank fi*om the staring eyes, 
And felt in the breast for the fatal prize. 
And this was the man, and this was the way 
That he took the stone on its natal day ; 
And for this he was cursed for evermore 
By tlie West Australian Koh-i-nor. 

In the half-dug pit the corpse was thrown, 
And the murderer stood in the camp alone. 
Alone ? No, no I never more was he 
To part from the terrible company 



232 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Of that gray-Llue face and the bleeding breast 
A nd the staring eyes in their awful rest. 
T'he evening closed on the homicide, 
And the blood of the buried sawyer cried 
Through the night to God, and the shadows dark 
That crossed the camp had the stiff and stark 
And honible look of a murdered man ! 
Then he piled the fire, and crept within 
The img of its light, that closed hun in 
Like tender mercy, and drove away 
For a time the spectres that stood at bay, 
And waited to clutch him as demons wait. 
Shut out from the sinner by Faith's bright gate. 
But the fire burnt low, and the slayer slept, 
And the key of his sleep was always kept 
By the leaden hand of him he had slain, 
That oped the door but to drench the brain 
With agony cruel. The night wind crept 
Like a snake on. the shuddering form that slept 
And dreamt, and woke and shrieked ; for there, 
With its gray-blue lines and its ghastly stare. 



THE MONSTER DIAMOND. 233 

Cutting into the Titals of Aaron Mace, 

In tlie flickering light was the sawyer's face ! 

Evermore 'twas with him, that dismal sight, — 
The white face set in the frame of night. 
He wandered awny from the spot, but found 
No inch of the West Austrahan ground 
Where he could Idde from the bleeding breast, 
Or sink his head in a dreamless rest. 

And always with him he bore the prize 
In a pouch of leather : the staring eyes 
Might burn liis soul, but the diamond's gleam 
Was solace and joy for the haunted dream. 

So the years rolled on, while the murderer's mind 
Was bent on a fulile quest, — to find 
A way of escape from the blood-stained soil 
And the terrible wear of the penal toil. 

But tliis was a part of the diamond's curse, — 
The toil that was heavy before grew worse, 



234 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Till the panting wretch in his fierce unrest 

Would clutch the pouch as it lay on liis breast^ 

A nd waking cower, with sob and moan, 

Or slu-iek wild curses against the stone 

That was only a stone ; for he could not sell, 

And he dare not break, and he feared to tell 

Of his wealth: so he bore it through hopes and 

fears — 
His God and his devil — for years and years. 

And thus did he draw near the end of his race, 
With a form bent double and horror-lined face, 
And a piteous look, as if asking for grace 
Or for kindness from some one ; but no kind word 
Was flung to his misery : shunned, abhorred, 
E'en by wretches themselves, till his life was a 

curse, 
And he thought that e'en death could bring nothing 

worse 
Than the phantoms that stirred at the diamond's 

w sight, — 
His o\Mi life's ghost and the ghost of his mate. 



THE MONSTER DIAMOND. 235 

So he turned one day from the haunts of men, 

And then- Mendless faces : an old man then, 

In a convict's garb, with white flowing haii', 

And a brow deep seared with tlie word, " Despair." 

lie gazed not back as his way he took 

To the untrod forest ; and oh ! the look, 

Tlie piteous look in his sunken eyes, 

Told that life was the bitterest sacrifice. 

But little was heard of his later days : 
'Twas deemed in the West that in change of ways 
He tried w^ith his tears to wash out the sin. 
'Twas told by some natives who once came in 
From the Kojunup Hills, that lonely there 
They had seen a figure with long white hair ; 
They encamped close by where his hut was made, 
And were scared at night when they saw he prayed 
To the white man's God ; and on one wild night 
Tliey had heard Ins voice till the morning light. 

Years passed, and a sandal wood-cutter stood 
At a ruined hut in a Kojunup wood: 



236 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The rank weeds covered the desolate floor, 
And an ant-hill stood on the fallen door ; 
The cupboard within to the snakes was loot, 
And the hearth was the home of tlie bandicoot. 
But neither at hut nor snake nor rat 
"Was the woodcutter staring intent, but at 
A human skeleton clad in gray, 
The hands clasped over the breast, as they 
Had fallen in peace when he ceased to pray. 

As the bushman looked on the form, he saw 
In the breast a paper : he stooped to di*aw 
What might tell him the story, but at his touch 
From under the hands rolled a leathern pouch, 
And he raised it too, — on the paper's face 
He read " Ticket-of-Leave of Aaron Mace.'* 
Then he opened the pouch, and in dazed surprise 
At its contents strange he unblessed his eyes : 
^Twas a lump of quartz^ — a pound weight in full. 
And it fell from his hand on the skeleton's skull ! 



THE DOG GUARD. * 237 



THE DOG GUARD: AN AUSTRALIAN 
STORY. 

'"T^HERE are lonesome places upon the earth 

That have never re-echoed a sound of mirth, 
Where the sphits abide that feast and quaff 
On the shuddering soul of a murdered laugh, 
And take grim delight in the fearful start, 
As their unseen fingers clutch the heart. 
And the blood flies out from the griping pain, 
To carry the chill through every vein ; 
And the staring eyes and the whitened faces 
Are a joy to these ghosts of the lonesome places. 

But of all the spots on this earthly sphere 
Where these dismal spirits are strong and near, 
There is one more dreary than all the rest, — 
'Tis the barren island of Rottenest. 
On Australia's western coast, you may — 
On a seaman's cliart of Fremantle Bay — 



238 ' iONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Find a tiny speck, some ten miles from shore : 
If the chart be good, there is something more, — 
For a shoal runs in on the landward side, 
With five fathoms marked for the highest tide. 
You have nought but my word for all the rest, 
But that speck is the island of Rottenest. 

'Tis a white sand-heap, about two miles long, 
And say half as wide ; but the deeds of wrong 
Between man and his brother that there took pinoe 
Are sufficient to sully a continent's face. 
Ah, cruel tales I were they told as a whole, 
They would scare your pohshed humanity's soul ; 
They would blanch the cheeks in your carpeted 

room, 
With a terrible thouo-ht of the merited doom 
For the crimes committed, still unredrest, 
On that white sand-heap called Rottenest, 

Of late years the island is not so bare 

As it was when I saw it first ; for there 

On the outer headland some buildings stand, 



THE DOG GUARD. 239 

And a flag, red-crossed, says the patch of sand 
Is a recognized part of the wide domain 
That is blessed with the peace of Victoria's reign. 
But behind the lighthouse the land 's the same, 
And it bears grim proof of the white man's shame ; 
For the miniature vales that the island owns 
Have a horrible harvest of human bones ! 

And how did they come there ? that 's the word ; 
And I '11 answer it now with the tale I heard 
From the lips of a man who was there, and saw 
The bad end of man's greed and of colony law. 

Many years ago, when the white man first 
Set his foot on the coast, and was hated and cursed 
By the native, wdio had not yet learned to fear 
The dark wrath of the stranger, but drove his spear 
With a freeman's force and a bushman's yell 
At the white invader, it then befell 
That so many were. killed and cooked and eaten, 
Tliere was risk of the whites in the end being 
beaten ; 



240 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

So a plan was proposed, — 'twas deemed safest and 

best 
To imprison the natives in Rottenest. 

And SO every time there was wliite blood spilled, 
There were black men captured ; and those not 

killed 
In the rage of vengeance were sent away 
To this bleak sand isle in Fre mantle Bay ; 
And it soon came round that a thousand men 
Were together there, like wild beasts in a pen. 
There was not a shrub or grass-blade in the sand, 
Nor a piece of timber as large as your hand ; 
But a government boat went out each day 
To fling meat ashore — and then sailed away. 

For a year or so was this course pursued, 

Till 'twas noticed that fewer came down for food 

When the boat appeared ; then a guard lay round 

The island one night, and the white men foimd 

That the savages swam at the lowest tide 

To the shoal that lay on the landward side, — 



THE DOG GUARD. 24I 

'Twas a mile from the beach, — and then waded 

ashore ; 
So the settlers met in grave council once more. 

That a guard was needed was plain to all ; 

But nobody answered the Governor's call 

For a volunteer watch. They were only a few, 

And their wild young farms gave plenty to do ; 

And the council of settlers was breaking up, 

With a dread of the sorrow they 'd have to sup 

When the savage, unawed, and for vengeance wild 

Lay await in the wood for the mother and child. 

And with doleful countenance each to his neighbor 

Told a dreary tale of the world of labor 

He had, and said, " Let him watch who can, 

[ can't ; " when there stepped to the front a 

man 
With a hard brown face and a burglar's brow, 
Who had learned the secret he uttered now 
When he served in the chain-gang in New South 

Wales. 
And he said to them : " Friends, as all else fails, 



242 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

These 'ere natives are safe as if locked and barred, 
If you '11 line that shoal with a mastiff guard I " 

And the settlers looked at each other awhile, 
Till the wonder toned to a well-pleased smile 
When the brown ex-biu*glar said he knew, 
And would show the whole of 'em what to do. 

Some thi-ee weeks after, the guard was set ; 

And a native who sw^am to the shoal was met 

By tAVO half-starved dogs, when a mile from 

shore, — 
And, somehow, that native was never seen more. 
AU the settlers were pleased with the capital plan, 
And they voted theii* thanks to the hard-faced 

man. 
For a year, each day did the government l>oat 
Take the meat to the isle and its guard ailoat. 
In a line, on the face of the shoal, the dogs 
Had a dry house each, on some anchored logs ; 
And the neck-chain from each stretched just hall 

way 



THE DOG GUARD. 243 

To the next clog's house ; right across the Bay 
Rail a line that was hideous with horrid sounds 
From tlie hungry throats of two hundred hoands. 

So one more year passed, and the brutes on the logs 
Had grown more like devils than common dogs. 
There was such a hell-chorus by day and night 
That the settlers ashore were chilled with fright 
When they thought — if that legion should break 

away, 
And come in with the tide some fatal day I 

But they 'scaped that chance ; for a man came id 
From the Bush, one day, with a 'possum's skin 
To the throat filled up with large pearls he 'd found 
To the north, on the shore of the Shark's Bay 

Sound. 
And the settlement blazed with a wild commotion 
At sight of the gems from the wealthy ocean. 

Then the settlers all began to pack 

Their tools and tents, and to ask the track 



244 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Tliat the bushman followed to strike the spot, — 

While the dogs and natives were all forgot. 

Ill two days, from that camp on the River Swan, 

To the Shark's Bay Sound had the settlers gone ; 

And no merciful feeling did one retard 

For the helpless men and their terrible guard. 

It were vain to try, in my quiet room, 
To write down the truth of the awful doom 
That befell those savages prisoned there. 
When the pangs of hunger and wild despair 
Had nigh made them mad as the fiends outside : 
'Tis enough that one night, through the low ebb 

tide, 
Swam nine hundred savages, armed with stones 
And with weapons made from then- dead friends' 

bones. 
Without ripple or soimd, when the moon was gone, 
Through the inky water they glided on ; 
S\7imming deep, and scarce daring to draw a breath, 
While the guards, if they saAV, were as dumb as 

death. 



THE DOG GUARD. 245 

'Twas a terrible picture I O God ! that the night 
Were so black as to cover the horrid sight 
From the eyes of the Angel that notes man s ways 
In the book that will ope on the Day of Days ! 

There were screams when they met, — shrill screams 

of pain ! 
For each animal swam at the length of his chain, 
And with parching throat and in furious mood 
Lay awaiting, not men, but his coming food. 
Tliere were short, sharp cries, and a line of fleck 
As the long fangs sank in the swimmer's neck ; 
There were gurgling growls mixed with human 

groans, 
For the savages drave the sharpened bones 
Through their enemies' ribs, and the bodies sank. 
Each dog holding fast with a bone through his flank. 

Then those of the natives who 'scaped swam back ; 
But too late I for scores of the savage pack. 
Driven mad by the yells and the sounds of fight, 
Had broke loose and followed. On that dread night 



246 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Let the curtain fall : when the red sun ro&e 
From the placid ocean, the joys and woes 
Of a thousand men he had last eve seen 
Were as tilings or thoughts that had never been. 

When the settlers returned, — in a month or two, — 

They bethought of the dogs and the prisoned crew. 

And a boat went out on a tardy quest 

Of whatever was living on Rottenest. 

They searched all the isle, and sailed back agen 

With some specimen bones of the dogs and men. 



THE AJVIBER WHALE. 



Though it lash the shallows that line the beach, 

Afar from the great sea deeps, 
There is never a storm whose might can reach 

Where the vast leviathan sleeps. 
Like a mijhty thought in a quiet mind, 

In the clear, cold deptlis he swims ; 
Whilst above him the pettiest form of his kind 

With a dash o'er the surface skims. 

There is peace in jyower : the men who speak 

With the loudest tongues do least ; 
And the surest sign of a mind that is weak 

Is its leant of the power to rest. 
It is only the lighter watpr that flies 

From the sea on a windy day ; 
And the deep blue ocean never replies 

To the sibilant voice of the spray. 



THE AMBER WHALE. 247 



TIIE AMBER WHALE: A HARPOONEER'S 

STORY. 



[Whalemen have a strange belief as to the formation of amber. They 
Bay that it is a petrifacti n of some internal part of a whale; and they tell 
•weird stories of enormous whales seen in the warm latitudes, that wer« 
almost entirely transfer aied into the precious substance.] 



"^T 7E were down in the Indian Ocean, after 
sperm, and three years out; 

The last six months in the tropics, and looking 
in vain for a spout, — 

Five men up on the royal yards, weary of strain- 
ing their sight ; 

And every day like its brother, — just morning and 
noon and night — 

Nothing to break the sameness: water and wind 
and sun 

Motionless, gentle, and blazing, — never a change 
in one. 



248 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Every day like its brother : when the noondaj 

eight-bells came, 
'Twas like yesterday ; and we seemed to know 

that to-morrow would be the same. 
The foremast hands had a lazy time : there was 

never a thing to do ; 
The ship was painted, tarred down, and scraped ; 

and the mates had notliing new. 
We 'd worked at sinnet and ratline till there wasn't 

a yarn to use, 
And all we could do was watch and pray for a 

sperm whale's spout — or news. 
It was whaler's luck of the vilest sort ; and, though 

many a volunteer 
Spent his watch below on the look-out, never a 

whale came near, — 
At least of the kind we wanted : there were lots 

of whales of a sort, — 
Killers and finbacks, and such like, as if they 

enjoyed the sport 
Of seeing a whale-ship idle ; but we never lowered 

a boat 



THE AMBER WHALE. 249 

For less than a blackfish, — there's no oil in a 

killer's or finback's coat. 
There was rich reward for the look-out men, — 

tobacco for even a sail, 
And a barrel of oil for the lucky dog who 'd bo 

first to " raise " a whale. 
The crew was a mixture from every land, and many 

a tongue they spoke ; 
And when they sat in the fo'castle, enjoying an 

evening smoke, 
There were tales told, youngster, would make you 

stare, — stories of countless shoals 
Of devil-fish in the Pacific and right-whales away 

at the Poles. 
There was one of these fo'castle yarns that we 

always loved to hear, — 
Kanaka and Maori and Yankee ; all lent an eager 

ear 
Tc that strano^e old tale that was alwavs new, ^ 

the wonderful treasure-tale 
Of an old Down -Eastern harpooneer who had 

struck an Amber Whale I 



; 
250 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

A J, tliat was a tale worth hearing, lad: if 'twas 

true we couldn't say, 
Or if 'twas a jsun old Mat had spun to ^hile the 

time away. 

*' It 's just fifteen years ago," said Mat, " since I 

shipped as harpooneer 
On board a bark in New Bedford, and came cruis- 
ing somewhere near 
To this whaling-ground we 're cruising now ; but 

whales were plenty then, 
And not like now, when we scarce get oil to pay 

for the ship and men. 
There were none of these oil wells running then, — 

at least, what shore folk term 
An oil well in Pennsylvania, — but sulphur-bottom 

and sperm 
Were plenty as frogs in a mud-hole, and all of 'em 

big whales, too ; 
One hundred barrels for sperm-whales; and for 

sulphur-bottom, two. 
You couldn't pick out a small one : the littlest 

calf or cow 



THE AMBER WHALE. 25 I 

Had a sight more oil than the big bull whales we 
think so much of now. 

We were more to the east, off Java Straits, a little 
below the mouth, — 

A hundred and five to the east'ard and nine de- 
grees to the south ; 

And that was as good a whaling-ground for mid- 
dling-sized, handy whales 

As any in all the ocean ; and 'twas always white 
with sails 

From Scotland and Hull and New England, — for 
the whales were thick as frogs, 

And 'twas little trouble to kill 'em then, for they 
lay as quiet as logs. 

And every night we 'd go visiting the other whale- 
ships 'roimd, 

Or p'r'aps we 'd strike on a Dutchman, calmed off 
the Straits, and bound 

To Singapore or Batavia, with plenty of schnapps 
to sell 

For a few whale's teeth or a gallon of oil, and the 
latest news to tell. 



252 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And iu every ship of that whaling fleet was one 

wonderful story told, — 
How an Amber Whale had been seen that jeai 

that was worth a mint of gold. 
And one man — mate of a Scotchman — said he d 

seen, away to the west, 
A big school of sperm, and one whale's spout was 

twice as high as the rest ; 
And we knew that that was the Amber "Whale, for 

we 'd often heard before 
That his spout was twice as thick as the rest, and 

a hundred feet hig^h or more. 
And often, when the look-out cried, ' He blows I ' 

the very hail 
Thrilled every heart with the greed of gold, — for 

we thought of the Amber Whale. 



" But never a sight of his spout we saw till the sea- 
son there went roimd, 

And the ships ran down to the south'ard to an- 
other whaling-ground. 



THE AMBER WHALE. 253 

We stayed to the last off Java, and then we ran 

to the west, 
To get our recruits at Mauritius, and give the crew 

a rest. 
Five days we ran in the trade winds, and the boys 

were beginning to talk 
Of their time ashore, and whether they 'd have a 

donkey-ride or a walk, 
And whether they'd spend their money in wine, 

bananas, or pearls. 
Or drive to the sugar plantations to dance with the 

Creole girls. 
But they soon got sometliing to talk about. Five 

days we ran west-sou'-west, 
But the sixth day's log-book entry was a change 

from all the rest ; 
For that was the day the mast-head men made 

every face turn pale. 
With the cry that we all had dreamt about, — ' IIb 

Blows ! the Ambee Whale ! ' 



254 SONGS. LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

" And eTery man was motionless, and every speak- 
er's lip 

Just stopped as it was, with the word half-said : 
there wasn't a sound in the ship 

Till the Captain hailed the masthead, ' Whereaway 
is the whale you see ? ' 

And the cry came down again, ' He blows ! about 
four points on our lee, 

And three miles off, sir, — there he blows ! he 's 
jToinoc to leeward fast ! ' . 

And then we sprang to the rigging, and saw the 
great whale at last ! 

" Ah ! shipmates, that was a sight to see : the water 

was smooth as a lake, 
And there was the monster rolling, with a school of 

whales in his wake. 
They looked like pilot-fish round a shark, as if they 

were keeping guard ; 
And, shipmates, the spout of that Amber Whale 

was high as a sky-sail yard. 
There was never a sliip's crew worked so quick as 

our whalemen worked that day, — 



THE AMBER WHALE. 255 

When the captain shouted, ' Swing the boats, and 

be ready to lower away ! ' 
Then, ' A pull on the weather-braces, men ! let her 

head fall off three points I ' 
And off she swung, with a quarter-breeze straining 

the old ship's joints. 
The men came down from the mastheads ; and the 

boats' crews stood on the rail, 
Stowing the lines and irons, and fixing paddles and 

sail. 
And when all was ready we leant on the boats and 

looked at the Amber's spout, 
That went up lilvc a monster fountain, with a sort 

of a rumbling shout, 
liike a thousand railroad engines puffing awa}' their 

smoke. 
He was just like a frigate's hull capsized, and the 

swapng water broke 
Against the sides of the great stiff whale : he was 

steering south-by-west, ■ — 
For the Cape, no doubt, for a whale can shape a 

course as well as the best. 



256 SONGS, LEGENDS, ANE BALLADS. 

We soon got close as was right to go ; for the scJiool 

might hear a hail, 
Or see the bark, and that was the last of our Bank- 

of-England Whale. 
' Let her luff,' said the Old Man, gently. ' Now, 

lower away, my boys, 
And pull for a mile, then paddle, — and mind that 

you make no noise.' 

" A minute more, and the boats were down ; and 

out from the hull of the bark 
They shot with a nervous sweep of the oars, hke 

dolpliins away from a shark. 
Each officer stood in the stern, and watched, as he 

held the steering oar. 
And the crews bent down to their pulling as they 

never pulled before. 

" Our ]\Iate was as thorough a whaleman as T ever 

met afloat ; 
And I was his harpooneer that day, and sat in th^ 

bow of the boat. 



THE AMBER WHALE. 257 

His eyes were set on the wliales aliead, and he spoke 

in a low, deep tone, 
And told the men to be steady and cool, and the 

whale was all our own. 
And steady and cool they proved to be : you could 

read it in every face, 
And in every strammg muscle, that they meant to 

win that race. 
' Bend to it, boys, for a few strokes more, — -bend to 

it steady and long ! 
Now, in with your oars, and paddles out, — all 

together, and strong I ' 
Then we turned and sat on the gunwale, with our 

faces to the bow ; 
And the whales were right ahead, — no more than 

four sliips' lengths off now. 
There were five of 'em, hundred-barrellers, like 

guards round the Amber Whale. 
And to strike him we 'd have to risk being stove by 

crossing a sweeping tail ; 
But the prize and the risk were equal. ' Mat,' now 

whispers the Mate, 



258 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

' Are your irons ready ? ' ' Ay, ay, sir.' ' Stand up, 

then, steady, and wait 
Till I give the word, then let 'em fly, and hit him 

below the fin 
As he rolls to wind'ard. Start her, boys ! now 's 

the time to slide her in! 
Hurrah ! that fluke just missed us. JMind, as soon 

as the iron 's fast. 
Be ready to back your paddles, — now in for it, boys, 

at last. 
Heave I Again I ' 

" And two irons flew : the first one sank 

in the joint, 
'Tween the head and hump, — in the muscle; but 

the second had its point 
Turned off by striking the amber case, coming out 

again like a bow. 
And the monster carcass quivered, and roUed with 

pain from the first deep blow. 
Then he lashed the sea with his terrible flukes, and 

showed us manv a si^rn 



THE AMBER WHALE. 259 

Tliat Ills rage was roused. ' Lay off,' roared the 

Mate, 'and all keep clear of the Ime I ' 
And that was a timely warning, for the whale made 

an awfid breach 
Right out of the sea ; and 'twas well for us that the 

boat was beyond the reach 
Of his sweeping flukes, as he milled around, and 

made for the Captain's boat, 
That was right astern. And, shipmates, then my 

heart swelled up in my throat 
At the sight I saw: the Amber Whale was lash- 
ing the sea with rage, 
And two of his hundi-ed-barrel guards were ready 

now to engage 
In a bloody fight, and with open jaws they came 

to their master's aid. 
■ Then we knew the Captain's boat was doomed ; but 

the crew were no whit afraid, — 
They were brave New England whalemen, — and 

we saw the harpooneer 
Stand up to send in liis irons, as soon as the whal(-^ 

came near. 



26o SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Tlien we heard the Captam's order, ' Heave ! ' and 

saw the harpoon fly, 
As the whales closed in with their open jaws : a 

shock, and a stifled cry 
Was all that we heard ; then we looked to see if 

the crew were still afloat, — 
But nothing was there save a dull red patch, and 

the boards of the shattered boat I 

"But that was no time for mourning words : the 

other two boats came in. 
And one got fast on the quarter, and one aft the 

starboard fin 
Of the Amber Whale. For a minute he paused, as 

if he were in doubt 
As to whether 'twas best to run or fight. ' Lay 

on ! ' the Mate roared out, 
* A] id I '11 give him a lance ! ' The boat shot in ; 

and the Mate, when he saw his chance 
Of sending it home to the vitals, four times he 

buried his lance. 
A jiinute more, and a cheer went up, when we saw 

that his aim was good ; 



THE AMBER WHALE. 26 1 

For the lance had struck in a life-spot, and the whale 

was spouting blood I 
But now came the time of danger, for the school of 

whales around 
Had aired their flukes, and the cry was raised, 

* Look out ! they 're going to sound I ' 
And down they went with a sudden plunge, the 

Amber Whale the last, 
While the lines ran smoking out of the tubs, ha 

went to the deep so fast. 
Before you could count your fingers, a hundred 

fathoms were out; 
And then he stopped, for a wounded whale must 

come to the top and spout. 
We hauled slack line as we felt him rise ; and 

when he came up alone. 
And spouted thick blood, we cheered again, for we 

knew he was all our own. 
Ke was frightened now, and his fight was gone, — 

right round and round he spun, 
As if he was tr}dng to sight the boats, or find tha 

best side to run. 



262 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

But tliat was tlie minute for us to work: the Loats 

hauled in their slack, 
And bent on the di-ag-tubs over the stern to tire 

and hold him back. 
The bark was five miles to wind'ard, and the mate 

gave a troubled glance 
At the sinking s'clq, and muttered, • Boys, ^ve must 

give him another lance. 
Or he '11 run till night ; and, if he should head to 

wmd'ard in the dark. 
We '11 be forced to cut loose and leave him, or else 

lose run of the bark.' 
So we hauled in close, two boats at once, but only 

frightened the whale ; 
And, like a hound that was badly whipped, he 

turned and showed his tail. 
With his head right dead to wind'ard ; then as 

straight and as swift he sped 
As a hungry shark for a swimmmg prey ; and, 

bending over his head, 
Like a mighty plume, went his bloody spout. Ah I 

shipmates, that was a sight 



THE AMBER WHALE. 263 

vVortli a life at sea to witness. In his wake the sea 

was white 
As YOU 've seen it after a steamer's screw, chuniincr 

up like foaming yeast ; 
And the boats w>:3nt hissiag along at the rate of 

twenty knote; at least. 
With the water flush with the gunwale, and the 

oars were all apeak, 
While the crews sat silent and quiet, watching the 

long, white streak 
That was traced by the line of our passage. We 

hailed the bark as we passed, 
And told them to keep a sharp look-out fi-om the 

head of every mast ; 
* And if we 're not back by sundown,' cried the 

Mate, 'you keep a light 
At the royal cross-trees. If he dies, we may stick 

to the whale all night.' 

''And past we swept with our oars apeak, and 

waved our hands to the hail 
Of the wondering men on the taffraQ, who were 

watching our Amber Whale 



264 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

As lie sui'ged ahead, just as if he thought he could 

tii'e liLs enemies out ; 
I was almost sorrowful, shipmates, to see after each 

red spout 
That the great whale's strength was failing: the 

sweep of his flukes grew slow, 
Till at sundown he made about four knots, and his 

spout was weak and low. 
Then said the Mate to his boat's crew : ' Boys, the 

vessel is out of sight 
To the leeward : now, shall we cut the line, or stick 

to the whale all night ? ' 
' We '11 stick to the whale ! ' cried every man. ' Let , 

the other boats go back 
To the vessel and beat to wind'ard, as well as they 

can, in our track.' 
It was done as they said : the lines were cut, and 

the crews cried out, ' Good speed ! ' 
As we swept along in the darkness, in the wake 

of our monster steed, 
That went plunging on, with the dogged hope that 

he 'd tire his enemies still, — 



THE AMBER WHALE. 265 

But even the strength of an Amber Wliale must 

break before human will. 
By little and little his power had failed as he 

spouted liis blood away, 
Tin at midnight the rising moon shone down on 

tlie great fish as he lay 
Just moving his flukes ; but at length he stopped, 

and raising his square, black head 
As high as the topmast cross-trees, swung round 

and fell over — dead I 

" And then rose a shout of triiunph, — a shout that 

was more like a curse 
Than an honest cheer ; but, shipmates, the thought 

in our hearts was worse. 
And 'twas punished with bitter suffering. We 

claimed the whale as our own. 
And said that the crew should have no share of the 

w^ealth that was ours alone. 
We said to each other : We want their help till we 

get the whale aboard, 
So we '11 let 'em think that they '11 have a share tiU 

we get the Amber stored, 



266 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And tlieu we '11 pay them their wages, and send 

them ashore — or afloat^ 
If they sliow their temper. Ah ! shipmates, no 

wonder 'twas that boat 
And its selfish crew were cursed that night. Next 

day we saw no sail, 
But the wind and sea were rising. Still, we held 

to the di'ifting whale, — 
And a dead whale drifts to windward, — going 

farther away from the ship. 
Without water, or bread, or coinage to pray with 

heart or lip 
That had planned and spoken the treachery. The 

wind blew into a gale, 
And it screamed like mocking laughter round our 

boat and the Amber Whale. 

" That night fell dark on the starving crew, and a 

hurricane blew next day; 
Then we cut the line, and we curbed the priie as it 

drifted fast away, 
As if some power under the waves were towing it 

out of sight ; 



THE AMBER WHALE. 26/ 

And there we were, without help or hope, dreadlirg 

the commg night. 
Three days that hurricane lasted. When it passed, 

two men were dead ; 
And the strongest one of the li\4ng had not strength 

to raise his head, 
When his dreaming swoon was broken by the sound 

of a cheery hail. 
And he saw a shadow fall on the boat, — it fell 

from the old bark's sail ! 
And when he heard then* kindly words, you 'd think 

he should have smiled 
With joy at his deliverance ; but he cried like a 

little child, 
And hid his face in his poor weak hands, — for he 

thought of the selfish plan, — 
And he prayed to God to forgive them all. And, 

shipmates, I am the man ! — 
The only one of the sinful crew that ever beheld 

his home ; 
For before the cruise was over, all the re^t were 

under the foam. 



268 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

It's just fifteen years gone, shipmates," said old 

Mat, ending his tale ; 
*' And I often pray that I '11 never see another 

Amber WhaJe." 



THE KING OF THE VASSE, 



A LEGEND OV THE BUSH. 



From that fair land and drear land in the Souths 

Of which through years I do not cease to think, 
I brought a tale, learned not by word of mouthy 

But formed by finding here one golden link 
And there another ; and with hands unskilled 

For such fine work, but patient of all pain 
for love of it, I sought therefrom to build 

What might have been at first the goodly chain. 

. t is not golden now : my craft knows more 
Of working baser metal than of fine; 

hut to those fate-wrought rings of precious ore 
I add these rugged iron links of mine. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 

A LEGEND OF THE BUSH. 

Y tale which I have brought is of a tiaie 
Ere that fair Southern hind was stained with 

crime, 
Brouo-ht thitherward in reeking ships and cast 
Like blight upon the coast, or like a blast 
From angry levin on a fair young tree. 
That stands thenceforth a piteous sight to see. 
So lives this land to-day beneath the sun,— 
A weltering plague-spot, where the hot tears run, 
And hearts to ashes turn, and souls are dried 
Like empty kilns where hopes have parched and 

died. 
Woe's cloak is round her,— she the fairest shore 
In all the Southern Ocean o'er and o'er. 
Poor Cinderella ! she must bide her woe, 
Because an elder sister wills it so. 

271 



2/2 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

All ! could that sister see the future day 

When her own wealth and strength are shorn 

away, 
And she, lone mother then, puts forth her hand 
To rest on kindred blood in that far land ; 
Could she but see that kin deny her claim 
Because of nothing owing her but shame, — 
Then might she learn 'tis building but to fall, 
If carted rubble be the basement-wall, 

But this my tale, if tale it be, begins 
Before the young land saw the old land's sins 
Sail up the orient ocean, like a cloud 
Far-blown, and widening as it neared, — a shroud 
Fate-sent to wrap the bier of all things pure, 
And mark the leper-land while stains endure. 

In the far days, the few who sought the West 
Were men all guileless, in adventurous quest 
Of lands to feed their flocks and raise their grain, 
And help them live their lives with less of pain 
Than crowded Europe lets her children know. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 2/3 

From tlieir old homesteads did they seaward go, 

As if in Nature's order men must flee 

As flow the streams, — from inlands to the sea. 

In that far time, from out a Northern land, 
With home-ties severed, went a numerous band 
Of men and wives and children, white-haired 

folk: 
Whose humble hope of rest at home had broke, 
As year was piled on year, and still their toil 
Had wrung poor fee from Sweden's rugged soil. 
One day there gathered from the neighboring steads, 
In Jacob Eibsen's, five strong household heads, — 
Five men large-limbed and sinewed, Jacob's sons, 
Though he was hale, as one whose current runs 
In stony channels, that the streamlet rend, 
But keep it clear and full unto the end. 
Eidit sons had Jacob Eibsen, — three still boys. 
And these five men, who owned of griefs and 

joys 
The common lot ; and three tall girls beside, 
Of whom the eldest was a blushing bride 



2/4 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

One year before. Okl-fasbioned times' and ineu, 
And wives and maidens, were in Sweden then. 
These five came there for counsel : '.hey were 

tired 
Of hoping on for all the heart desired ; 
xVnd Jacob, old but mighty-thewed as yorth, 
In all their words did sadly own the truth, 
And said unto them, " Wealth cannot be fonnd 
In Sweden now by men who till the ground. 
I 've thought at times of leaving this bavf.: pl'5.ce, 
And holding seaward with a seeking face 
For those new lands they speak of, when mcD 

thrive. 
Alone I 've thought of this ; but now 30 a f.ve — 
Five brother men of Eibsen blood — shall say 
If our old stock from here must wend th \1 

way, 
And seek a home where anxious sires can give 
To every child enough whereon to live." 

Then each took thought in silence. Jacob gazed 
Across them at the pastures worn and grazed 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 2/5 

By ill-fed herds ; his glance to corn-fields passed, 
Where stunted oats, worse each year than the last, 
And bhghted barley, grew amongst the stones, 
That showed ungainly, like earth's fleshless bones. 
He sighed, and turned away. " Sons, let me know 
What think you." 

Each one answered firm, " We go.' 
And then they said, " We want no northern wind 
To chill us more, or driving hail to blind. 
But let us sail where south winds fan the sea. 
And happier we and all our race shall be." 
And so in time there started for the coast. 
With farm and household gear, this Eibsen host ; 
And there, with others, to a good ship passed. 
Which soon of Sweden's hills beheld the last. 

I know not of their voyage, nor how they 
Did wonder-stricken sit, as day by day, 
'Neath tropic rays, they saw the smooth sea swell 
And heave; while night by night the north-stai 
fell, 



276 SONGS, LEGENDS, * AND BALLADS. 

Till last they watched him burning on the sea ; 
Nor how they saw, and wondered it could be, 
Strange beacons rise before them as they gazed ; 
Nor how their hearts grew light when southward 

blazed 
Five stars m blessed shape, — the Cross! whose 

flapae 
Seemed shining welcome as the wanderers came. 

My story presses from this star-born hope 

To where on young New Holland's western slope 

These Northern farming folk found homes at 

last, 
And all their thankless toil seemed now long 

past. 

Nine fruitful years chased over, and nigh all 
Of life was sweet. But one dark drop of gaU 
Had come when first they landed, like a sign 
Of some black woe ; and deep in Eibsen's wine 
Of life it hid, till in the sweetest cup 
The old man saw its shape come shuddering up. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 2// 

I 

And first it came in this wise : when their ship 

Had made the promised land, and every lip 

Was pouring praise for what the eye did meet, — 

For all the air was yellow as with heat 

Above the peaceful sea and dazzling sand 

That wooed each other round the beauteous land, 

Where inward stretched the slumbering forest's 

green, — 
When first these si^-hts from off the deck wera 



seen, 



There rose a wailing sternwards, and the men 
Who dreamt of heaven turned to earth agen, 
And heard the dheful cause with bated breath, — 
The land's first gleam had brought the bhght of 
death ! 

The wife of Eibsen held her six-years son, 
Her youngest, and in secret best-loved one. 
Close to her lifeless : his had been the cry 
That fii'Lit horizonwards bent every eye ; 
And from that opening sight of sand and tree 
Like one deep spell-bound did he seem to be. 



278 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And moved by some strange phantasy ; his eyes 

Were wide distended as in glad surprise 

At something there he saw ; his arms reached 

o*er 
The vessel's side as if to greet the shore, 
And sounds came from his lips like sobs of joy. 

A brief time so ; and then the blue-eyed boy 
Sank down convulsed, as if to him appeared 
Strange sights that they saw not ; and all afeard 
Grew the late joyous people with vague dread ; 
And loud the mother wailed above her dead. 

The ship steered in and found a bay, and then 
The anchor plunged aweary-like : the men 
Breathed breaths of rest at treading: land aoea. 

Upon the beach by Christian men 'dntrod 

The wanderers kneeling offered up to God 

The land's first-fruits ; and nigh the kneeling bai*^ 

The burdened mother sat upon the sand, 

And still she wailed, not praying. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 2/9 

'Neath the wood 
T]iat lined the beach a crowd of watchers stood: 
Tiill men spear-aimed, with skuis hke dusky night, 
And aspect blended of deep awe and fright. 
The ship that morn they saw, like some vast bird, 
Come sailing toward their country ; and they heard 
The voices now of those strange men whose eyes 
Were tiu-ned aloft, who spake unto the skies ! 

They heard and feared, not knowing, that first 

prayer. 
But feared not when the wail arose, for there 
Was some familiar thing did not appall, — 
Grief, common heritage and lot of all. 
They moved and l,Teathed more freely at the cry, 
And slowly from the wood, and tunorously, 
They one by one emerged upon the beacli. 
The white men saw, and like to friends did reach 
Their hands unarnied ; and soon the dusky crowd 
Drew nigh and fc.tood where wailed the mother 

loud. 
They claimed her kindred, they could understand 



280 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

That woe was hers and theirs ; whereas the band 
Of white-skmned men did not as brethren seem. 

But now, behold! a man, whom one would deem 

From eje and mien, wherever met, a King, 

Did stand beside the woman. No youth's spring 

Was in the foot that naked pressed the sand ; 

No warrior's might was in the long dark hand 

That waved his people backward ; no bright gold 

Of lace or armor glittered ; gaunt and old, — 

A belt, half apron, made of emu-down, 

Upon his loins ; upon his head no crown 

Save only that which eighty years did trace 

In wliitened hair above his furrowed face. 

Nigh nude he was : a short fur boka hung 

In toga-folds upon his back, but flung 

From Ids right arm and shoulder, — ever there 

The spear-arm of the warrior is bare. 

So stood he nigh the woman, gaunt and wild 
But king-like, spearless, looking on the cliild 
That lay with livid face upon her knees. 



THE KING OF THE VaSSE. 28 1 

Thus long and fixed lie gazed, as one who sees 

A symbol hidden in a simple thing, 

And trembles at its meaning : so the King 

Fell trembling there, and from his breast there 

broke 
A cry, part joy, part fear ; then to his folk 
W^ith upraised hands he spoke one guttural word, 
And said it over thrice ; and when they heard. 
They, too, were stricken with strange fear and joy. 

The white-haired King then to the breathless boy 
Drew closer still, while all the dusky crowd 
In weird abasement to the earth were bowed. 
Across his breast the aged ruler wore 
A leathern thong or belt ; whate'er it bore 
Was hidden 'neath the boka. As he drew 
Anigh the mother, from his side he threw 
Far back the skm that made his rich-furred robe. 
And showed upon the belt a small red globe = 
Of carven wood, bright-polished, as with years : 
When this they saw, deep grew his people's fears, 
And to the white sand were their foreheads 
pressed. 



2S2 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The Kiiig then raised his arms, as if he blest 
The youth who lay there seeming dead and cold ; 
Then took the globe and oped it, and behold ! 
Within it, bedded in the carven case, 
There lay a precious* thing for that rude race 
To hold, though it as God they seemed to prize, — 
A Pearl of purest hue and wondious size I 

And as the sunbeams kissed it, from the dead 
The dusk King looked, and o'er his snowy head 
With both long hands he raised the enthroned 

gem. 
And turned him toward the strangers: e'en on 

them 
Before the lovely Thing, an awe did faii 
To see that worship deep and mj'stical, 
That King with upraised god, like rev'rent priest 
With elevated Host at Christian feast. 

Then to the nxither turning slow, the King 
Took oit the Pearl, and laid the beauteous Thing 
Upon the dead boy's mouth and brow and breast, 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 283 

And as it touched liim, lo ! the awful rest 
Of death was broken, and the youth uprose I 



Nine years passed over since on that fair shore 
The wanderers knelt, — but wanderers they no 

more. 
With hopeful hearts they bore the promise-pain 
Of early labor, and soon bending grain 
And herds and homesteads and a teeming soil 
A thousand-fold repaid their patient toil. 

Nine times the sun's high glory glared above, 

As if his might set naught on human love, 

But yearned to scorn and scorch the things that 

grew 
On man's poor home, till all the forest's hue 
Of blessed green was burned to dusty brown ; 
And still the ruthless rays rained fiercely down, 
Till insects, reptiles, shrivelled as they lay, 
And piteous cracks, like lips, in parching clay 
Sent silent pleadings skyward, — as if she, 



284 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The fruitful, generous mother, plaintively 

Did wail for water. Lo ! her cry is heard, 

And swift, obedient to the Ruler's word, 

From Southern Iceland sweeps the cool sea breeze. 

To fan the earth and bless the suffering trees, 

And bear dense clouds with bursting weight of 

rain 
To soothe with moisture all the parching pain. 

Oh, Mercy's sweetest symbol ! only they 
Who see the earth agape in burning day, 
WTio watch its living things thirst-stricken lie, 
And turn from brazen hea-ven as they die, — 
Their hearts alone, the shadowy cloud can prize 
That veils the sun, — as to poor earth-dimmed eyes 
The sorrow comes to veil our joy's dear face, 
All rich in mercy and in God's sweet grace I 

Thrice welcome, clouds from seaward, settling down 
O'er thirsting nature ! Now the trees' dull brown 
Is washed away, and leaflet buds appear, 
And youngling undergrowth, and far and near 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 285 

The busli is whispering in her pent-np glee, 

As myriad roots bestir them to be free, 

And drink the soaking moisture ; while brignt 

heaven 
Shows clear, as inland are the spent clouds driven , 
And oh ! that arch, that sky's intensate hue ! 
That deep, God-painted, unimagined blue 
Through which the golden sun now smiling sails, 
And sends his love to fructify the vales 
That late he seemed to curse ! Earth throbs and 

heaves 
With pregnant prescience of life and leaves ; 
The shadows darken 'neath the tall trees' screen. 
While round their stems the rank and velvet green 
Of undergrowth is deeper still ; and there, 
Within the double shade and steaming air. 
The scarlet palm has fixed its noxious root. 
And hangs the glorious poison of its fruit ; 
And there, 'mid shaded green and shaded light. 
The steel-blue silent birds take rapid flight 
From earth to tree and tree to earth ; and there 
The crimson-plumaged parrot cleaves the air 



286 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Like flj^ng fire, and huge brown owls awake 

To watch, far down, the stealing carpet snake, 

Fresh-skinned and glowing in his changing dyes, 

With evil wisdom in the cruel eyes 

That glint like gems as o'er his head flits by 

The blue-black armor of the emperor-fly ; 

And all the humid earth displays its powers 

Of prayer, with incense from the hearts of flowers 

That load the air with beauty and with wine 

Of mmgled color, as with one design 

Of making there a carpet to be trod, 

In woven splendor, by the feet of God I 

And high overhead is color : round and round 

The towering gums and tuads, closely wound 

Like cables, creep the climbers to the sun, 

And over all the reaching branches run 

And hang, and still send shoots that climb and 

wind 
Till every arm and spray and leaf is twined, 
And miles of trees, like brethren joined in love, 
Are drawn and laced; while round them and 

above, 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 28/ 

When all is knit, the creeper rests for days 

As gathering might, and then one blinding blazo * 

Of very glory sends, in wealth and strength, 

Of scarlet flowers o'er the forest's length ! 

SueL scenes as these have subtile power to trace 
Their clear-lined impress on the mind and face ; 
And these strange simple folk, not knowing why, 
Grew more and more to silence ; and the eye, 
The quiet eye of Swedish gra}-, grew deep 
With listening to the solemn rustling sweep 
From wings of Silence, and the earth's great psalm 
Intoned forever by the forest's calm. 

But most of all was younger Jacob changed : 
From morn till night, alone, the woods he ranged, 
To kindred, pastime, sympathy estranged. 
Since that first da}^ of landing from the ship 
When with the Pearl on brow and breast and lip 
The aged King had touched him and he rose. 
His former life had left him, and he chose 
The woods as home, the wild, uncultui-ed men 
As frieuds and comrades. It were better then, 



288 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

His brethren said, tlie boy had truly died 
*Thaii they should live to be by him denied, 
As now they were. He lived in sombre mood, 
He spoke no word to them, he broke no food 
That they did eat : his former life was dead, — 
The soul brought back was not the soul that 

fled! 
'Twas Jacob's form and feature, but the hght 
Within his eyes was strange unto their sight. 

His mother's grief was piteous to see : 

Unloving was he to the rest, but she 

Held undespahmg hope that deep within 

Her son's changed heart was love that she migl:! 

win 
By patient tenderness ; and so she strove 
For nine long years, but won no look of Iotb I 

At last his brethren gazed on him with awe, 
And knew untold that from the form they saw 
Their brother's gentle mind was sure dispelled. 
And now a gloomy savage soul it held. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 289 

From that first day, close intercourse he had 
With those who raised him up, — fierce men, 

unclad. 
Spear-armed and wild, in all their ways uncouth, 
And strange to every habit of his youth. 
His food they brought, his will they seemed to 

crave. 
The wildest bushman tended like a slave ; 
He worked their charms, their hideous chants he 

sung ; 
Though dumb to all his own, their guttural tongue 
He often spoke in tones of cui't command. 
And kinged it proudly o'er the dusky band. 

And once each year there gathered from afar 

A swarming host, as if a sudden war 

Had called them forth, and with them did thej 

bring 
In solemn, savage pomp the white-haired King, 
Who year by year more withered was and weak ; 
And he would lead the youth apart and speak 



290 SOXGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Some occult words, and from the carven case 
Would take the Pearl and touch the young man's 

face, 
And hold it o'er him blessing ; while the crowd, 
As on the shore, in dumb abasement bowed. 
And when the King had closed the formal rite, 
The rest held savage revelry by night, 
Round blazing fires, with dance and orgies base, 
That roused the sleeping echoes of the place. 
Which down the forest vistas moaned the din, 
Like spirits pure beholding impious sin. 

Nine times the}" gathered thus ; but on the last 
The old king's waning life seemed well-nigh past. 
His feeble strength had failed : he walked no 

more, 
But on a woven spear- wood couch they bore 
With careful tread the form that barely gasped, 
As if the door of death now hung unliasped, 
Awaiting but a breath to swing, and show 
The dim eternal plain that stretched below. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 29 1 

The tenth year waned: the cloistered bush was 

stilled, 
The earth lay sleeping, while the clouds distilled 
In ghostly veil their blessing. Thm and white, 
Through opening trees the moonbeams cleft the 

night. 
And showed the sombre arches, taller far 
Than grandest aisles of built cathedrals are. 
And up those dim-lit aisles in silence streamed 
Tall men with trailing spears, until it seemed, 
So many lines converged of endless length, 
A nation there was gathered in its strength. 

Around one spot was kept a spacious ring, 
Where lay the body of the white-haired King, 
Which all the spearmen gathered to behold 
Upon its spear-wood litter, stiff and cold. 
All naked, there the dusky corse was laid 
Beneath a royal tuad's mourning shade ; 
Upon the breast was placed the carven case 
That held the symbol of their ancient race, 



292 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And eyes awe-stricken saw the mystic Thing 
That soon would clothe another as their King ! 
The midnight moon was high and white o'erhead, 
And threw a ghastly pallor round the dead 
That heightened still the savage pomp and state 
In which they stood expectant, as for Fate 
To move and mark with undisputed hand 
The one amongst them to the high command. 
And long they stood unanswered ; each on each 
Had looked in vain for motion or for speech : 
Unmoved as ebon statues, grand and tall, 
They ringed the shadowy circle, silent all. 

Then came a creeping tremor, as a breeze 
"With cooling rustle moves the summer trees 
Before the thunder crashes on the ear ; 
The dense ranks turn expectant, as they hear 
A sound, at first afar, but nearing fast ; 
The outer crowd divides, as waves are cast 
On either side a tall ship's cleaving bow, 
Or mould is parted by the fearless plough 
That leaves behind a passage clear and broad : 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 293 

So tliroagli tlie murmuring multitude a road 
Was cleft with power, up which in haughty swing 
A figure stalking broke the sacred ring, 
And stood beside the body of the King I 

'Twas Jacob Eibsen, sad and gloomy-browed, 
Who bared his neck and breast, one moment 

bowed 
Above the corse, and then stood proud and tall, 
And held the carven case before them all ! 
A breath went upward like a smothered fright 
From every heart, to see that face, so white, 
So foreign to their own, but marked with might 
From source unquestioned, and to them divine ; 
Whilst he, the master of the mystic sign. 
Then oped the case and took the Pearl and raised, 
As erst the King had done, and upward gazed, 
As swearing fealty to God on high ! 

But ere the oath took form, there thrilled a cry 
Of shivering horror through the hush of night ; 
And there before him, blinded by the sight 



294 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Of all his impious purpose, brave with love, 
His mother stood, and stretched her arms above 
To tear the idol from her darling's hand ; 
But one fierce look, and rang a harsh command 
In Jacob's voice, that smote her like a sword. 
A thousand men sprang forward at the word, 
To tear the mother from the form of stone. 
And cast her forth ; but, as he stood alone, 
The keen, heart-broken wail that cut the air 
Went two-edged through him, half reproach, half 
prayer. 

But all unheeding, he nor marked her cry 
By sign or look within the gloomy eye ; 
But round his body bound the carven case, 
And swore the fealty with marble face. 

As fades a dream before slow-waking sense. 
The shadowy host, that late stood fixed and dense. 
Began to melt ; and as they came erewhile, 
The streams flowed backward through each mocfi- 
lit aisle ; 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 295 

And soon he stood alone witliin Jtlie place, 
Their new-made king, — their king with pallid face, 
Their king with strange foreboding and unrest, 
And half-formed thoughts, like dreams, within liis 

breast. 
Like jNIoses' rod, that mother's cry of woe 
Had struck for water ; but the fitful flow 
That weakly welled and streamed did seem tc 

mock 
Before it died forever on the rock. 

The sun rose o'er the forest, and his light 
Made still more dreamlike all the evil night. 
Day streamed his glory down the aisles' dim arch, 
All hushed and f-badowy like a pillared church ; 
And through the lonely bush no living thing 
Was seen, save now and then a garish wing 
Of bird low-flying on its silent way. 

But woful searcJiers spent the weary day 
In anxious dreiid, and found not what th^j 
sought, — 



296 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Their mother and their brother : evening brought 
A son and father to the lonesome place 
That saw the last night's scene ; and there, her face 
Laid earthward, speaking dumbly to her heart, 
They found her, as the hands that tore apart 
The son and mother flung her from their chief, 
And with one cry her heart had spent its grief. 

They bore the cold earth that so late did move 

In household happiness and works of love, 

Unto their rude home, lonely now ; and he 

Who laid her there, from present misery 

Did turn away, half-blinded by his tears, 

To see with inward eye the far-off years 

When Swedish toil was light and hedgerows 

sweet ; 
Where, when the toil was o'er, he used to meet 
A simple gray-eyed girl, with sun-browned face, 
Whose love had won his heart, and whose sweet 

grace 
Had blessed for threescore years his humble life. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 297 

So Jacob Eibsen mourned his faithful wife, 

And found the world no home when she was gone. 

The days that seemed of old to hurry on 

Now dragged their course, and marred the wish 

that grew, 
When first he saw her grave, to sleep there too. 
But though to him, whose yeasning hope outran 
The steady motion of the seasons' plan, 
Tlie years were slow in coming, still their pace 
With awful sureness left a solemn trace, 
Lik3 dust that settles on an open page. 
On Jacob Eibsen's head, bent down with age ; 
And ere twice more the soothing rains had come, 
The old man had his wish, and to his home. 
Beneath the strange trees' shadow where she lay, 
They bore the rude-made bier ; and from that day, 
AVhen round the parent graves the brethren stood, 
Their new-made homesteads were no longer good, 
Bat marked they seemed by some o'erhanging 

dread 
Tliat linked the living with the di-eamlcss dead. 



298 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Grown silent with the woods the men w^ere all, 

But words were needed not to note the pall 

That each one knew hung o'er them. Duties 

now, 
With straying herds or swinging scythe, or plough, 
Were cheerless tasks : like men they were who 

wrought 
A weary toil that no repayment brought. 
And when the seasons came and went, and still 
The pall was hanging o'er them, with one will 
They yoked their oxen teams and piled the loads 
Of gear selected for the aimless roads 
That nature opens through the bush ; and when 
The train was ready, worn en -folk and men 
Went over to the graves and wept and prayed, 
Then rose and turned away, but still delayed 
Ere leaving there forever those poor mounds. 

The next bright sunrise heard the teamslei's' 

sounds 
Of voice and whip a long day's march away ; 
And wider still the space grew day by day 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 299 

From their old resting-place : the trackless wood 
Still led them on with promises of good, 
As when the mirage leads a thirsty band 
With palm-tree visions o'er the arid sand. 

I know not where they settled down at last : 
Their lives and homes from out my tale have 

passed, 
And left me naught, or seeming naught, to trace 
But cheerless record of the empty place. 
Where long unseen the palm-thatched cabins stood, 
And made more lonely still the lonesome wood. 

Long lives of men passed over ; but the years, 
That line men's faces with hard cares and tears, 
Pass lightly o'er a forest, leaving there 
No wreck of young disease or old despair ; 
For trees are mightier than men, and Time, 
When left by cunning Sin and dark -browed 

Crime 
To work alone, hath ever gentle mood. 
Unshanged the pillars and the arches stood, 



300 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

But shadowed taller vistas ; and the earth, 
That takes and gives the ceaseless death and bir' 'j, 
Was blooming still, as once it bloomed before 
When sea-tired ejes beheld the beauteous shore. 

But man's best work is weak, nor stands n)i 

grows 

Like Nature's simplest. Every breeze that blows, 

Health-bearing to the forest, plays its part 

In hasting graveward all his humble art. 

• 
Beneath the trees the cabins still remained. 

By all the changing seasons seared and stained ; 

Grown old and weirdlike, as the folk might grow 

In such a place, who left them long ago. 

Men came, and wondering found the work of 

men 
Where they had deemed them first. The savage 

then 
Heard through the wood the axe's deathwatch 

stroke 
For him and all his peoj^le : odorous smoke 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 3O! 

Of burning sandal rose where white men dwelt, 

Around the huts ; but they had shuddering felt 

The weird, forbidden aspect of the spot, 

And left the place untouched to mould and rot. 

The woods grew blithe with labor : all around. 

From point to point, was heard the hollow sound, 

The solemn, far-off clicking on the ear 

That marks the presence of the pioneer. 

And children came like flowers to bless tue toil 

That reaped rich fruitage from the virgin soil ; 

And through the woods chey wandered fresh and 

fair. 
To feast on all the beauties blooming there. 
But always did they shun the spot where grew. 
From earth once tilled, the flowers of rarest hue. 
There wheat grown wild in rank luxuriance 

spread, 
And fruits grown native ; but a sudden tread 
Or bramble's fall would foul goanos wake. 
Or start the chilling rustle of the snake ; 
And diamond eyes of these and thousand more, 
Gleamed out from ruined roof and v/aU and floor. 



302 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The new-come people, tliej wliose axes rung 
Tin^oughout the forest, spoke the English tongue, 
And never knew that men of other race 
From Europe's fields had settled in the place ; 
But deemed these huts were built some long-past 

day 
By lonely seamen who were cast away 
And thrown upon the coast, who there had built 
Their homes, and lived until some woe or guilt 
Was bred among them, and they fled the sight 
Of scenes that held a horror to the light. 

But while they thought such things, the spell that 

hung. 
And cast its shadow o'er the place, was strung 
To utmost tension that a breath would break. 
And show between the rifts the deep blue lake 
Of blessed peace, — as next to sorrow lies 
A stretch of rest, rewarding hopeful eyes. 
And while such tilings bethought this new-come 

folk, 
That breath was breathed, the olden spell was 

broke : 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 303 

From far away witliin the unknown land, 

O'er belts of forest and o'er wastes of sand, 

A cry came thrilling, like a cry of pain 

From suffering heart and half-awakened brain ; 

As one thought dead who wakes within the tomb, 

And, reaching, cries for sunshine in the gloom. 

In that strange country's heart, whence comes the 

breath 
Of hot disease and pestilential death. 
Lie leagues of wooded swamp, that from the hills 
Seem stretching meadows ; but the flood that filk 
Those valley-basins has the hue of ink, 
And dismal doorwaj^s open on the brink. 
Beneath the gnarled arms of trees that grow 
All leafless to the top, from roots below 
The Lethe flood ; and he who enters there 
Beneath their screen sees rising, ghastly-bare, 
Like mammoth bones within a charnel dark, 
llie white and ragged stems of paper-bark, 
That drip down moisture with a ceaseless drip, 
From lines that run like cordage of a ship ; 



304 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

For myriad creepers struggle to the light, 

And twine and mat o'erliead in murdoroua 

fight 
For life and sunshine, like another race 
That wars on brethren for the highest place. 
Between the water and the matted screen. 
The baldhead vultures, two and two, are seen 
In dismal grandeur, with revolting face 
Of foul grotesque, like spirits of the place ; 
And now and then a spear-shaped wave goes by, 
Its apex glittering with an evil eye 
That sets above its enemy and prey. 
As from the wave in treacherous, slimy way 
The black snake winds, and strikes the bestial bird, 
Whose shriek-like w^ailing^ on the hills is heard. 

Beyond this circling swamp, a circling waste 
Of baked and barren desert land is placed, — 
A land of awful grayness, wild and stark, 
Where man will never leave a deeper mark. 
On leagues of fissured clay and scorching stones, 
Thau may be printed there bj' bleaching bones. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 305 

Witliin this belt, that keeps d savage guard, 

As round a treasure sleeps a dragon ward, 

A forest stretches far of precious trees ; 

Whence came, one day, an odor-laden breeze 

Of jam-wood bruised, and sandal sweet in smoke. 

For there lono: dwelt a numerous native folk 

In that heart-garden of the continent, — 

There human lives with aims and fears were 

spent, 
And marked by love and hate and peace and pain. 
And hearts well-filled and hearts athirst for gain, 
And lips that clung, and faces bowed in shame ; 
For, wild or polished, man is still the same. 
And loves and hates and envies in the wood, 
With spear and boka and with manners rude, 
As loves and hates his brother shorn and sleek, 
Who learns by lifelong practice how to speak 
With oily tongue, while in his heart below 
Lies rankling poison that he dare not show. 

Afar from all new ways this people dwelt, 
And knew no books, and to no God had knelt, 



306 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

And had no codes to rule them writ in blood ; 
But savage, selfish, nomad-lived and rude, 
With human passions fierce from unrestraint, 
And free as tlieir loose limbs ; with every taint 
That earth can give to that wliicb God has given ; 
Their nearest glimpse of Him, o'er-arching heaven, 
Where dwelt the giver and preserver, — Light, 
Who daily slew and still was slain by Night. 

A savage people they, and prone to strife ; 

Yet men grown Aveak with years had spent a life 

Of peace unbroken, and their sires, long dead, 

Had equal lives of peace unbroken led. 

It was no statute's bond or coward fear 

Of retribution kept the shivering spear 

In all those years from fratricidal sheath ; 

But one it was who ruled them, — one whom 

Death 
Had passed as if he saw not, — one whose word 
Through all that lovely central land was hear! 
And bowed to, as of yore the people bent, 
In desert wanderings, to a leader sent 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 307 

To guide and guard them to a promised land. 
O'er all the Austral tribes he held command, — 
A man unlike them and not of their race, 
A man of flowing hair and pallid face, 
A man who strove by no deft juggler's art 
To keep his kingdom in the people's heart, 
Nor held his place by feats of brutal might 
Or showy skill, to please the savage sight ; 
But one who ruled them as a King of kings, 
A man above, not of them, — one who brings, 
To prove his kingship to the low and high, 
The inborn power of the regal eye I 

Like him of Sinai with the stones of law, 

Whose people almost worshipped when they saw 

The veiled face whereon God's glory burned ; 

But yet who, mutable as water, turned 

From that veiled ruler who had talked with God, 

To make themselves an idol from a clod : 

So turned one day this savage Austral race 

Against their monarch with the pallid face. 

The young men knew him not, the old had heard 

In far-off days, from men grown old, a word 



308 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

That dimly lighted up the mystic choice 
Of this their alien King, — how once a voice 
Was heard by their own monarch calling clear, 
And leading onward, where as on a bier 
A dead child lay upon a woman's knees ; 
M^hom when tbe old King saw, like one who sees 
Far through the mist of common life, he spoke 
And touched him with the Pearl, and he awoke, 
And from that day the people owned his right 
To wear the Pearl and rule them, when the light 
Had left their old King's eyes. But now, they said, 
The men who owned that right were too long 

dead ; 
And they were young and strong and held their 

spears 
In idle resting through this white King's fears. 
Who stiU would live to rule them till they changed 
Their men to puling women, and estranged 
To Austral hands the spear and coila grew. 

And so they rose against him, and they slew 
The white-hau'ed men who raised their hands to 
warn. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 3O9 

And true to ancient trust in warning fell, 
While o'er them rang the fierce revolters' jell. 
Then midst the dead uprose the King in scorn, 
Like some strong, hunted thing that stands at 

bay 
To win a brief but desperate delay. 
A moment thus, and those within the ring 
'Gan backward press from their unarmed King, 
Who swept his hand as though he bade them fly, 
And brave no more the anger of his eye. 
The heaving crowd grew still before that face, 
And watched him take the ancient carven case, 
And ope it there, and take the Pearl and stand 
As once before he stood, with upraised hand 
And upturned eyes of inward worshipping. 

Awe-struck and dumb, once more they owned him 

King, 
And humbly crouched before him ; when a sound, 
A whirring sound that thrilled them, passed o'er- 

head. 
And with a spring they rose : a spear had sped 



3IO SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

With aim unen'ing and with deathful might, 
And split the awful centre of their sight, — 
The upraised Pearl ! A moment there it shone 
Before the spear-point, — then forever gone ! 



The spell that long the ruined huts did shroud 

Was rent and scattered, as a hanging cloud 

In moveless air is torn and blown away 

By sudden gust uprising ; and one day 

When evening's lengtliened shadows came to hush 

The children's voices, and the awful bush 

Was lapt in sombre stillness, and on high 

Above the arches stretched the frescoed sky, — 

When all the scene such chilling aspect wore 

As marked one other night long years before, 

When through the reaching trees the mc)oiilight 

shone 
Upon a prostrate form, and o'er it one 
With kingly gesture. Now the light is shed 
No more on youthful brow and daring head. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 3II 

But on a man grown weirdly old, whose face 

Keeps turning ever to some new-found place 

That rises up before him like a dream ; 

And not unlike a dreamer does he seem, 

Who might have slept, unheeding time's sure 

flow, 
And woke to find a world he does not know. 
His long white hair flows o'er a form low bowed 
By wondrous weight of years : he speaks aloud 
In garbled Swedish words, with piteous wist. 
As long-lost objects rise through memory's mist. 
Again and once again his pace he stays, 
As crowding images of other days 
Loom up before liim dimly, and he sees 
A vague, forgotten friendship in the trees 
That reach their arms in welcome ; but agen 
These olden glimpses vanish, and dark men 
Are round liim, dumb and crouching, and Le 

stands 
Witli guttural sentences and upraised hands, 
Tha-t hold a carven case, — but empty now, 
Whicli makes more pitiful the aged brow 



312 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

Fiill-tiirned to those tall tuads that did hear 
A son's fierce mandate and a mother's prayer. 

Ah, God ! what memories can live of these, 
Save only with the half-immortal trees 
That saw the death of one, the other lost? 

The weird-like figure now the bush has crost 
And stands within the ring, and turns and moans 
With arms out-reaching and heart-piercing tones. 
And groping hands, as one a long time blind 
Who sees a glimmering light on eye and mind. 
From tree to sky he turns, from sk}" to earth, 
And gasps as one to whom a second birth 
Of wondi'ous meaning: is an instant shown. 

Who is this wreck of years, who all alone, 
In savage raiment and with words unknown. 
Bows down like some poor penitent who fears 
The wrath of God provoked ? — this man who hears 
Around him now, wide circling tln-ough the wood, 
The breathing stillness of a multitude ? 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 313 

Who catches dimly through his straining sight 
The misty vision of an impious rite ? 
Who hears from one a cry that rends his heart, 
And feels that loving arms are torn apart, 
And by his mandate fiercely thrust aside ? 
Who is this one who crouches where she died, 
With face laid eartliAvard as her face was laid, 
And prays for her as she for him once prayed ? 

'Tis Jacob Eibsen, Jacob Eibsen's son. 
Whose occult life and mystic rule are done. 
And passed away the memory from his brain. 
'Tis Jacob Eibsen, who has come again 
To roam the woods, and see the mournful gleams 
That flash and linger of his old-time dreams. 

The morning found him where he sank to rest 
Within the mystic circle : on his breast 
With withered hands, as to the dearest place, 
He held and pressed the empty carven case. 

That day he sought the dwellings of his folk ; 
And when he found them, once again there hr^^f^i^ 



314 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

The far-off light upon him, and he cried 
From that wrecked cabin threshold for a guide 
To lead him, old and weary, to his own. 
And surely some kind spirit heard his moan. 
And led him to the graves where they were laid. 
The evening found him in the tuads' shade, 
And like a child at work upon the spot 
Where they were sleeping, though he knew it not 

Next day the children found him, and they gazed 

In fear at first, for they were sore amazed 

To see a man so old they never knew, 

Whose garb was savage, and whose wliite hair 

grew 
And flowed upon his shoulders ; but their awe 
Was changed to love and pity when they saw 
The simple work he wrought at ; and they came 
And gathered flowers for him, and asked his 

name, 
A lid laughed at his strange language ; and he 

smiled 
To hear them laugh, as though himself a child. 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 315 

Ere that brief day was o'er, from far and near 
The children gathered, wondering ; and though 

fear 
Of scenes a long time shunned at first restrained. 
The spell was broken, and soon naught remained 
But gladsome features, where of old was dearth 
Of happy things and cheery sounds of mirth. 
The lizards fled, the snakes and bright-eyed things 
Found other homes, where childhood never sings ; 
And all because poor Jacob, old and wild, 
White-haired and fur-clad, was himself a child. 
Each day he lived amid these scenes, his ear 
Heard far-off voices growing still more clear ; 
And that dim light that first he saw in gleams 
Now left him only in his troubled di-eams. 

From far away the children loved to come 
And play and work with Jacob at his home. 
He learned their simple words with childish lip, 
And told them often of a white-sailed ship 
That sailed across a mighty sea, and found 
A beauteous harbor, all encircled lound 



3l6 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

With flowers and tall green trees ; but when th.e^? 

asked 
What did the shipmen then, his mind was tasked 
Beyond its strength, and Jacob shook his head, 
And with them laughed, for all he knew was said 

The brawny sawyers often ceased their toil, 
As Jacob with the children passed, to smile 
With rugged pity on their simple play ; 
Then, gazing after the glad gToup, would say 
How strange it was to see that snowy hair 
And time-worn figui'e with the children fair. 

So Jacob Eibsen Hved through years of joy, — 
A patriarch in age, in heart a boy. 
Unto the last he told them of the sea 
And wliite-sailed ship ; and ever lovingly, 
Unto the end, the garden he had made 
He tended dail}^, 'neath the tuads' shade. 

But one bright morning, when the children came 
And roused the echoes calling Jacob's name, 



THE KING OF THE VASSE. 317 

The echoes only answered back the sound. 

They sought witliin the huts, but nothing found 

Save lonelmess and shadow, falling chill 

On everj^ sunny searcher : boding ill. 

They tried each well-known haunt, and every 

throat 
Sent far abroad the bushman's cooing note. 
But all in vain their searching : twilight fell. 
And sent them home their sorrowing tale to teU. 
That nie^ht their elders formed a torch-lit chain 
To sweep the gloomy bush ; and not in vain, — 
For when the moon at midnight hung o'erhead, 
The weary searchers found poor Jacob — dead I 

He lay within the tuad ring, his face 
Laid earthward on his hands ; and all the place 
Was dim with shadow where the people stood. 
And as they gathered there, the circling wood 
Seemed filled with awful whisperings, and stirred 
By things unseen ; and every bushman heard, 
From where the corse lay plain within their sight, 
A woman's heart-wail rising on the night. 



3l8 SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS. 

For over all the darkness and the fear 

That marked his life from childhood, shining clear, 

An arch, Hke God's bright rainbow, stretched 

aljove, 
And joined the first and last, — his mother's love 

Thej dug a grave beneath the tuads' shade, 
Where all unknown to them the bones were laid 
Of Jacob's kindred ; and a prayer was said 
In earnest sorrow for the unknown dead, 
Round which the children grouped. 

Upon the breaat 
The hands were folded in eternal rest ; 
But still they held, as dearest to that place 
Where life last throbbed, the empty carven case. 



OPINIONS OF THE PEESS. 



*' SONGS FROM THE SOUTHERN SEAS.* 

BY JOHN BOYLE o'BEILLY. 



New York Arcadian. 

*' Like the smell of new-mown hay, or the first breath of spring, or an 
nnexpected kisa from well-loved lips, or any other sweet, fresh, whole- 
some, natural delight, is to the professional reviewer the first perusal ol 
genuine poetry by a new writer. Not for a long time have we experienced 
80 fresh and joyous a surprise, so perfect a literary treat, as has been given 
us by these fresh and glowing songs by this young and hitherto utterly 
unknown poet. There is something so thoroughly new and natural and 
lifelike, something so buoyant and wholesome and true, so much original 
power and boldness of touch in these songs, that we feel at once that we 
are in the presence of a new power in poetry. This work alone places its 
author head and shoulder above the rank and file of contemporary versi- 
fiers. . . . The closing passages of ' Uncle Ned's ' second tale, are in the 
highest degree dramatic, — thrilling the reader like the bugle-note that 
sounds the cry to arms. Finally, several of the poems are animated by a 
spirit so affectionate and pure, that we feel constrained to love their writer, 
offering, as they do in this respect, so marked and pleasant a contrast with 
too much of the so-called poetry of these modern times." 

Baltimore Bulletin. 

" Mr. O'Reilly is a true poet — no one can read his stirring measures and 
Lis picturesque descriptive passages without at once recognizing the true 
singer, and experiencing the contagion of his spirit. He soars loftily and 
grandly, and his song peals forth with a rare roundnesss and mellowness 
of tone that cheers and inspirits the hearer. His subjects belong to the 
open air, to new fields or untrod wilds, and they are fi\ll of healthy 
freshness, and the vigor of sturdy, redundant life. We hail Mr. O'Reilly 
with pleaarre, and we demand for him the cordial recognition he aa- 
•errea," 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



CJiicago Inter-Ocean. 

*' We may safely say that we lay these poems down witl a feeling of de- 
light that there has come among us a true poet, who ca.i enchant by the 
vivid fire of his pictures without having recourse to a trick of words, or 
the re-dressing and re-torturing of old forgotten ideas. These poems, for 
the most part, are fresh and lifelike as the lyrics which led our forefathers 
to deeds of glory. "With scarce a line of mawkish sentiment, there is the 
deep heart-feeling of a true .poet. His descriptions bear the impress of 
truth and the realism of personal acquaintance with the incidents de- 
scribed. There is tiie flow of Scott in his narrative power, and the fire of 
Macanlay in his trumpet-toned tales of war. We are much mistaken if 
this man does not in the course of a few years walk the course, <ind show 
the world how narrative poetry should be written. He has it in him, and 
genius cannot be kept under hatches. Passing over ' The Dog Guard,' a 
fearful picture, we come to ' The Amber Whale.' It is impossible to 
describe the intense interest that surrounds this dramatic description. A 
more exciting chase could hardly be conceived, and as we stand with 
bated breath, while the mate drives his lance home to the vitals, and the 
boats go hissing along in the wake of the wounded monster, we seem to 
behold the seared with blood, and mark the flukes as they sweep the cap- 
tain's boat into eternity. Here is a portion of the story : — 

•' ' Then we heard the captain's order, " Heave! " and saw the harpoon fly, 
As the whales closed in with their open jaws: a shock, and a stifled cry 
Was all that we heard; then we looked to see if the crew were still 

afloat, — 
But nothing was there save a dull red jMkteh, and the boards of the shat- 
tered boat. 

•' ' But that waa no time for mourning words: the other two boats came in, 
And one got fast on the quarter, and one aft the starboard tin 
Of the Amber Whale. For a minute he paused, as if lie were in doubt 
As to whether 'twas best to run or fight. " Lay on! " the mate roared 

out, 
"And III give him a lance! " The boat shot in; and the mate, when he 

saw liis chance 
Of sending it home to the vitals, four times he buried his lanco.' 

" We next come to ' The Dukite Snake,' a t.ale so simply told, so beauti- 
fully sad, that the heart goes out in pity to the poor young husband in his 
terrible grief. The Dukite Snake never goes alone. When one is killed 
the other will follow to the confines of the earth, but he will have revenge. 
Upon this fact the poet has wrought a picture so true and so dramatic that 
it almost chills the blood to read a tale so cruel and so life-like. . . . Among 
the remaining poems of length, we have ' The Fishermen of Wexford,' ' The 
Flying Dutchman,' and ' Uncle Ned's Tales.' All are good; but the last »ie 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 3 

nmply superb. We doubt if more vivid pictures of war were ever drawn 
TTeuc dents are detailed with such lifelike force, that to any -« who had 
ever felt the enthusiastic frenzy of battle, they bring back the sounds of the 
hell' and the shout of advancing columns. They are lifelike as the page, 
of T^s.and stir the blood to a fever heat of warlike enthusiasm. They 
are strains to make soldiers." 

London Athenaeum. 
«MB. O'REILLY is the poet of a far land. He sings of Western Aus^ 
traulrthat poorest and loveliest of all the Australias, ^^f^^^^^^^^ 
from the mother country only her shame and her cnme ^^^ « ^J^^J; 
in a short poem, speaks of the land as ' discovered ere the ^tting time 
en owed with a peerless clime, but having birds that do not sing, fiowers 
that live no scent, and trees that do not fructify. Scenes and incidents 
however known t^ the author, in this P-fumel ess and mu^eh^nd, have 
been reoroduced by him in a series of poems of much beauty. The 
S of'tll^ yasse,''a legend of the bush, is a weird and deeply pathetic 
poem, admirable alike for its conception and execution. 

Atlantic Monthly. 
« In a modest, well-worded. prelude, the poet says: - 

" • From that fair land and drear land in the South, 

Of which through vears 1 do not cea.se to tnniK, 
I brought a tale, learned not by word of mouth, 

But formed by finding here one gohlen link 
An.i there another; and with hands unskilled 

For .such line work, but patient of all pain 
For love of it, 1 sought tlierefrom to build _ 

What might have been at first the goodly chain. 

«' ' It is not golden now: my craft knows more 
<)£ working baser metal than of fine; 
But to those fate-wrought rings of precious ore 
1 add these rugged iron links of mine. 

"This is not claiming enough for himself, but the reader the more 
glat'ly does him justice because of his modesty, and perhaps it is thia 
quality in the author which oftenest commends his book. ' The King of 
?he Vasse ' is the story of a child of the first Swedish emigrants to Aus- 
tralia, who lies dead in his mother's arms when they land. A native chief , 
coming with all his people to greet the strangers, touches the boy s fore- 
heTwith a great pearl, which he keeps in a carven case or shrine, and 
the mighty magic of it calls him back to life, but with a savage soul, as his 
Uudred believe; for he deserts them for the natives, over whom he 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



rules many years, inheriting and wearing the magic pearl. At last tha 
youug men of the tribe begin to cuedtion hia authority, and one of them, 
with a spear-thrust, destroys the great pearl. Jacob Eibsen then seems 
repossessed by a white man's soul, and returns to the spot long since 
abandoned by his kindred, and finds it occupied by English settlers, whose 
children's simple, childlike playmate he becomes, and remains till death. 
The plot is good; and it is always managed with a sober simplicity, which 
forms an excellent ground for some strong dramatic effects. The Austra- 
lian scenery and air and natural life are everywhere summoned round 
the story without being forced upon the reader. Here, for instance, ia 
a picture at once vivid and intelligible, — which is not always the case 
with the vivid pictures of the word-painters. After the raina begin in that 
Boathem climate, — 

" ' Earth throbs and heaves 
With pregnant prescience of life and leaves; 
The shadows darken 'neath the tall trees' screen. 
"While round their stems the rank and velvet green 
Of undergrowth is deeper still; and there. 
Within the double shade and steaming air, 
The scarlet palm has fixed its noxious root, 
And hangs tiie glorious poison of its fruit; 
And theie, 'mid shaded green and shaded light, 
The oteel-blue silent birds take rapid tiight 
From earth to tree and tree to earth; and there 
The crimson-plumaged parrot cleaves the air 
Like flying fire, and huge brown owls awake 
To watch, far down, the stealing carpet-snake, 
Fresh-skinned and glowing in his changing dyes, 
With evil wisdom in the cruel eyes 
That glint like gems as o'er his head flits by 
The blue-black armor of the emperor-fly; 
And all the humid earth displays its powers 
Of prayer, with incense from the hearts of flowers 
That load the air with beauty and with wine 
Of mingled color. . 

" ' And high o'erhead is color: round and round 
The towering gums and tuads, closely wound 
Like cables, creep the climbers to the sun, 
And over all the reaching branches run 
And hang, and still send shoots that climb and wind 
Till every arm and spray and leaf is twined, 
And miles of trees, like brethren joined in love. 
Are drawn and laced; while round them and above, 
When all is knit, the creeper rests for days 
As gathering udght, and tnen one blinding blaze 
Of very glory sends, in wealth and strength. 
Of scarlet flowers o'er the forest's length! ' 

" There are deep springs of familiar feeling (as the mother's grief for 
the estrangement of her savage-hearted son) also touched in this iioera, in 
which there is due artistic sense and enjoyment of the weirdness of the 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



motive; and, in short, we could imagine ourselvea recurring more tUiin 
ouce to the story, and liking it better tiud better. ' The Dog Guard ' lo t;iO 
next best story in the book; — a horrible fact, tretited with tragic realism, 
and skilfully kept from being merely horrible. . . . Some of tho b«»t 
poems in the book are the preludes to the stories." 

Boston Advertiser. 

" The first, and in many respects the best poem in the book, is ' The King 
of the Vasse,' which is a story of the very earliest settlement of Au.-tr:ilia 
by Europeans, and before a convict settlement was established vheie. 
There is to it far greater care and finish than to any of the other long 
poems. In some parts it is weird and strange to a degree; in others it is 
pathetic, — everywhere it ia simple, with a pleasant flow of rhythm, and 
closely true to nature. It is followed by * The Dog Guard,' a poem «rhich 
leaves an impression on the mind like Coleridge's 'Ancient Mariner ' — a sub- 
ject which, but for great skill in the treatment, would have been repulsive. 
As it stands in the book it shows eminent descriptive power, and a certain 
freedom and daring that lifts it far above the commonplace. Interspersed 
among the longer poems-are short verses, which must answer the sam-i pur- 
pose in the book as the organist's interludes, helping out the value of that 
which precedes, and that which follows. Some of these are more than 
excellent. They stand out as a peculiar feature of the book, adding to its 
completeness, as they will add to the poet's reputation. Preceding ' The 
Dog Guard ' we have the following, which perhaps is as characteristic aa 
any of the preludes. It will be seen that the burden of this, as indeed oi 
the whole book, is Western Australia: — 

" ' Nation of Sun and Sin, 

Thy flowers and crimes are red, 
And thy heart is sore within 
While the glory crowns thy head. 
Laud of the songless birds. 
What was thine ancient crime, 
Burning through lapse of time 
Like a prophet's cursing words? 

" * Aloes and myrrh and tears 
Mix in thy bitter wine: 
Drink, while the cup is thine 
Drink, for the draught is sign 
Of thy reign in coming years.* 

" Mr. O'Reilly has done his work faithfully and well ; he has given ua 
m his book more than he promised us in the preface; and to-day, with his 
first poetical venture before the public, he has added another to the lanrela 
he has already won in other fields." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



New York Tribune. 

"These songs are the most stirrins tales of adventure imaginablei 
chiefly placed in Western Australia, a penal colony, which has ' received 
from the mother country only her shame and her crime.' The book is the 
very melodrama of poetry. . . . Mr. O'Reilly is a man whose career haa 
been full of wild and varied adventure, and who has put these stirring 
scenes — all of which he saw, and part of which he waa — into verse as 
spontaneous and unconventional as the life he describes. His rhymed 
tales are as exciting as ghost stories, and we have been reading them while 
the early sullen November night closed in, with something the same feel- 
ing, the queer shiver of breathless expectation, with which we used to 
listen to legends of ghosts and goblins by our grandmother's firelight. 
Not that the supernatural figures too largely in these tales, — the actors in 
them are far more formidable than any disembodied spirits. . . . ' The King 
of the Vasse ' is a wonderful story, in which a dead child is raised to life 
by a pagan incantation and the touch of a mystic pearl on the face, — 
which will charm the lovers of the miraculous. * The Amber Whale,' 
'The Dog Guard,' and 'Haunted by Tigers,' are in the same vein with 
' The Monster Diamond.' Thrilling tales all of them. ' Chunder Ali'a 
Wife ' is a charming little Oriental love story; a * Legend of the Blessed 
Virgin' is full of tenderness and grace, for Mr. O'Reilly is both a Catholic 
Rnd an Irishman; and I cannot close my extracts from his book more 
fittingly than with his heartfelt lines to his ' Native Land ' : — 

" • It chanced to me upon a time to sail 

Across the Southern Ocean to and fro; 
And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 

Of seusuuus blessing did we ofttimes go. 
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep. 

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, 
Onnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, 

And left us yearning still for lands unknown. 

** ♦ And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find 

In thousand-isled Cathay another isle, — 
For one short noon its tre;isures tilled the mind. 

And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. 
And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, 

Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips; 
And when that all wa^ ta-'ted, then at last 

We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. 

" • I learned from this there is no Southern land 

Can till with love the hearts of Northern men- 
Sick minds need change; but, when in health they staad 
'Neath foreign skies their love flies home again. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



And thus with me it was: the yearning turned 

From laden airs of cinnamon away, 
An<l stretched far westward, while the full heart barned 

With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! 

'< « My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief! 

My land that has no peer in all the sea 
For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — 

It tirst to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
Kew loves may come with duties, but the first 

Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and smiles : 
Like that kind face and breast wliere I was nursed 

Is my poor land, the Nicbe of isles.' " 



Mr. R. H. Stoddard, in Scrihner^s Monthly. 

*' * The King of the Vasse,' the opening poem in Mr. O'Reilly's volume, 
Is a remarkable one; and if the legend be the creation of Mr. O'Reilly, it 
places him high among the few really imaginative poets. . . . This, in brief, 
is the outline of the ' King of the Vasse.' In it we could point out many 
faulty lines. William Morris could have spun off the verse more fluently, 
and Longfellow could have imparted to it his usual grace. Still, we are 
glad that it is not from them, but from Mr. O'Reilly, that we receive 
it. The story is simply and strongly told, and is imaginative and 
pathetic. It is certainly the most poetic poem in the Volume, though by 
no means the most striking one. * The Amber Whale ' is more character- 
istic of Mr. O'Reilly's genius, as 'The Dog Guard' and ' The Dukita 
Snake ' are more characteristic of the region in which he is most at home. 
.... He is as good a balladist as Walter Thornbury, who is the 
only other living poet who could have written * The Old Dragoon'i 
Story.' " 

Boston Gazette. 

" This is a volume of admirable poetry. The more ambitious poems in 
the book are in narrative form, and are terse and spirited in style, and full 
of dramatic power and effect. Mr. O'Reilly is both picturesque and epi- 
grammatic, and writes with a manly straightforwardness that is very 
attractive. ... Of the sickly sentimentality that forms the groundwork 
of so much of our modern poetry, not a trace is to be found in this booK. 

ae tone throughout is healthy, earnest, and pure. There is also an inde- 
pendence and originality of thought and treatment that are very striking, 
Sind which prove not the least attractive features of the book. Some of 
the stories are conceived with unusual power, and are developed with 
scarcely less effect and skill." 



8 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



Boston Times, 

*' Some remiDiscences of hia romantic life, the poet has woren into the 
Terses that fill this volume. Very grim reminiscences they are, of crime 
and death and horrors dire; but they represent faithfully, we have no 
doubt, the society, or rather savagery, of those far and fearsome lands. 
Most of the poems are stories, sombre in substance, but told with a vehe- 
ment vigor that is singularly harmonious with their themes. The opening 
poem, * The King of the Tasse,' preserves a strange and pathetic legend, 
which the poet has wrought into a powerful, but most painful story. His 
imagination revels in pictures of weird desolation and the repulsive and 
appalling prodigies of animal and vegetable life in the tropic world; and 
the effect of these presented in quick succession, and varied only by 
episodes of human sin or suffering, is positively depressing. Such passagei 
as this abound in the poem : — 

** * In that strange country's heart, whence comes the breath 
Of hot disease and pestilential dvath, 
Lie leagues of wooded swamp, that from the hills 
Seem stretching meadows; but the flood that tills 
These valley basins has the hue of ink 
And dismal doorways open on the brink. 
Beneath the gnarled arms of trees that grow 
All leafless to the top, from roots below 
The Lethe flood; and he who enters there 
Beneath this screen sees rising, ghastly bare, 
Like mammoth bones within a charnel dark, 
The white and ragged stems of paper-bark, 
That drip down moisture with a ceaseless drip, — 
With lines that run like cordage of a ship; 
For myriad creepers struggle to the light, 
And twine and meet o'erhead in mtirderoua fight 
For life and sunshine. . . . 

" ' Between the water and the matted screen, 
The bald-head vultures, two and two, are seen 
In dismal grandeur, with revolting face 
Of foul grotesque, like spirits of the place; 
And now and then a spear-shaped wave goes by, 
Its apex glittering with an evil eye 
That sets above its enemy and prey 
As from the wave in treacherous, slimy way 
The black snake winds, and strikes the bestial bird, 
Whose shriek-like wailing on the hills is heard.' 

"The 'Dog Guard' is a tale of horrors. 'The Amljer Whale' and 
' Haunted by Tigers ' are founded on whaling incidents, and the latter, 
especially, is eloquent with the woe of tragedy. Tnere are a few poems in 
the volume written in a lighter mood. ' Uncle Xed's Tale ' is a very 
spirited tale of battle. ' The Fishermen of Wexford ' is one of the best 
pieces in the collection — almost severe in its simple realism, but tenderly 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



pathetic. "We Mve rarely seen a first volume of poems so ricli in promise 
as is this. It is singularly tres from the faults of most early poems, and 
exhibits a maturity of thought and a sober strength of style that would do 
credit to any of our older poets." 

Boston Commercial Bulletin. 

" His descriptive powers are remarkably strong and vivid, and his imag- 
ination powerful and vigorous. Yet it is evident from a glance at the 
minor poems of ' Golu,' and my • Mother's Memory,' that the author lian 
an imagination that will not desert liim on brighter and more graceful 
tiights of fancy. Altogether the volume is one of much more than ordi- 
nary originality and excellence." 

Worcester Palladium. 

" He shows originality and good descriptive power, and he treats his 
subjects con amore. . . . The author had the very best reason in the world 
for writing this collection, and a second volume will be awaited with rea- 
son; for strong points are displayed, and a person who writes because hia 
heart wills it, sooner or later wins the heart of the public." 

Bangor Whig. 

" There is no one of the poems the book contains that has not running 
through it a sort of realism that at once takes possession of the reader's 
mind, and he looks upon it, as it were, as au actual event." 

Mr. Newell (Orpheus C Kerr) in The Catholic Review. 

"Judged in all the phases of his talent presented by this book, Mr. 
O'Reilly is unquestionably a man of true poetic verve and temperament, 
with too much reverence for the noble gift of song to sophisticate it with 
mawkish tvffectations or conceited verbal ingenuities. No obscure line 
patches his page; no fantastic mannerism accentuates his style; no pretend- 
edly metaphysical abstraction egotizea what he thinks worthy of gift to 
mankind." 

Utica Herald. 

" In the leading poem of Mr, O'Reilly's collection, entitled ' The King of 
the Vasse,' there are novelties of scene and legend which alone claim the 
attention. . . . The poem is in many respects a wonderful one, and contains 
many subtleties of thought and expression, which it is impossible to 
reproduce in scanty extract." 



lO OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

Literary World, Boston. 
..." Mr. O'Reilly unquestionably possesses poetical talent of a high and 
rare order. He excels in dramatic narrative, to "wLicL liLs natural intensity 
of feeling lends a peculiar force. His verse is -sometimes careless, and 
often lacks finish; but writers are few, nowadays, who htive a better capi- 
tal in heart or hand for successful poetical work than that which is 
evidenced in thia volume." 

New York Independent. 

"The first and longest poem in this book, 'The King of the Yasse,' 
Introduces us into a new country, and proves that the author's dreary 
Australian experiences were a gain to literature. . . . ' The Dog Guard ' 
and • The Amber Whale' are even better, the hist being an addition of 
real value to our literature. Throughout the les? ;r poems which compose 
the remainder of the volume, there is each an esenness of excellence as 
to give good proof that the author need not confine himself to narrative 
poetry in order to claim an honorable place in our literature." 

Chicago Times, 

" This book is a striking instance that ' you find poetry nowhere tmless 
you bring some with you.' The thousands of despairing wretches who 
have toiled in the chain-gangs as Mr. O'Reilly dil, saw no poems in the 
Boil which seemed to give them back the impress only of the British 
arrow cut on the sole of their convict shoes. But the radiant imagination 
and tender heart of the patriot felon found poetr., on every side of him, 
and in his hands the driest stick becomes an Aaron's rod, and buda 
and blossoms. The most delightful portion of the book is its Australian 
legends. These reveal extraordinary dramatic pover, and their rhythmi- 
cal construction is perfect. Unique and incomparable, they will keep a per- 
manent place ia literature, and the romance of t'leir origin and authorship 
will scarcely add anything to their beauty and completeness as poems. . . . 
•Modem poets put a great deal of water in their ink,' says Goethe. 
O'Reilly's ink contains just water enough to keep ihe fluid from becoming 
thick. It flovvs like a limpid stream, flecked with clouds and sunlight, a'-d 
here and there tossing witli so much force into fisriares of Australian rocka 
as to send up glittering, snowy showers of spray. O'Reilly is undoubtedly 
destined to reach a high place as an English p^et. He ia now a very 
young man." 

Christian Era. 
"A:* a poet, his writings have called forth admiration, and as an editor, 
be is worthy of great praise." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. I i 

Mr. E. P. WJilpple, in the Boston Globe. 

" The Boston editors c.n boast of having a poet in their ranks, and they 
should naturally cherish Lim. . . . More than half his volume is demoted 
to what he eaw, felt, coll >cted, and iinagiued during a forced sojourn in 
Australia. The remaiuiug portion consists of occasional poems, very 
tender, fanciful, earnest, individual, and manly, claiming nothing which 
they do not win by their own inherent force, grace, melody, and ' sweet 
reasonableness,' or it mrvbe at times their passionate unreasonableness. 
Nobudy can read the volume without being drawn to its author. He is so 
thoroughly honest and si'.viere that he insists that his imaginations are but 
memories." 

New York Evening Mail. 

" Most of the songs are stories of the bush or of the sea, and, strangely, the 
subjects are almost withe- at exception, illustrations of the awful surety of 
the punishment that lays In wait for the sin of hilh whom men harm not 
— the key of Coleridge's ■ Ancient Mariner.' It is almost the old Greek 
Fate that stalks through lese tales of outlawry and wrong, anl if they be 
indeed the legends of a c ivict laud, they are themselves a strange showing 
of how crime haunts and iiunts the soul. . . . Mr. O'Reilly iias the natural 
gift of telling a story caj .r.ally, and all these tales in verse are interesting 
as well as powerful. H' has other qualifications also as a poet; his Aus- 
tralian landscapes are d "awn with fine artistic skill, and testify to their 
own truth, and about some of his pictures their is a weirdness tuat touches 
on the supernatural." 

Boston Post. 

" Of the author's genius in poetry the public are so well aware, through 
his fugitive pieces, that no commendation is necessary. His style is vigor- 
ous and manly, and combines a delicacy of sentiment with clearness of 
thought and vivacity of 'magery. Most of these poems have a peculiar 
interest, from the fact that they are of a narrative form, 'relics of an un- 
known sphere,' of the writer's personal experience and adventure in 
Australia. They are uneven in merit, but by far the greater number have 
already taken a permanez^t place among the living poems of the day." 

Danhury Neios. 

" His poems, aside froi-' their intrinsic merit and romantic interest, are 
wortU close study, as exai. pies of the elTe(;ts produced npon tlie loind of n 
prisoner by the wild luxuriance and fantastic forms which nature assumes 
In Australia." 



12 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

New York Tablet. 

"The * Amber Whale,' 'Dog Guard,' and 'Monster Diamond,' art 
among the best known of his longer puems, and they have already taken 
their place amongst the best narrative poems of the age. . . . We hail 
with very great pleasure this first collection of Mr. O'Reilly's poems, 
which we hope will meet with the kindly welcome it deserves from all 
lovers of ballad poetry." 

Cincinnati Times, 

" Amid the frantic strivings of modern poet^ to obtain a reputation for 
originality by wild mouthings, odd, sti'ange, and revolting conceits, by soar- 
ing toward the empyrian, and diving into the infinite, by a false mysticism 
and luxuriance of verbiage, covering a poverty of ideas, it is refreshing to 
find one poet who is content to be original within the domain of common 
pense; who courts the muses, not with the freedom of a literary libertine, 
but modestly, yet with true poetic ardor. ... In view of all this we take 
it as a most encouraging thing that such a book of poetry as ' Songs from the 
Southern Seas ' is published, and still more encouraging its evident ap- 
proval by critics and acceptableness to the public. In some of the poema, 
notably in ' The King of the Vasse,' there are traces of the influence of 
Wm. Morris, and Mr. O'Reilly could not be influenced from a sweeter, 
purer source; in narrative passages there is evidence of a study of Scott, 
and tlie poet could not study in this department a better model; in the 
war lyrics thei-e is an evident following of the style of Macaulay, and a 
einger of more stirring battle-songs never lived; but throughout the book 
there is hardly a trace of Swinburne or the Swinburniau school. The 
poems are strong, earnest, and the offspring of genuine emotion. . . . Jlr. 
O'Reilly's war lyrics, under the title of ' Uncle Ned's Tales,' are the most 
spirited that have been produced for a long time. They have all the ring 
and fire of Macaulay; they stir one's blood like the neigh of a war-horse or 
the blast of a bugle." 

Hartford Post. 

" Some of the short poems are full of thoughtful earnestness and the 
true poet's yearning tenderness, while seldom have more stirring lines 
told tales of war than those of ' Uncle Ned's Stories.' " 

San Francisco Monitor. 

" The volume now before us contains ' The King of the Vasse,' • The 
Dog Guard,' 'The ^^uber AVhale,' and a number of minor pieces, all of 
which are marked by much dram.itic power and beauty of imagery, Bhow* 
Ing him to be a poet in the truest sense of the word." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 1 3 

Irish American. 

" Originality, whether of Ideas, construction, or of subjects, Is the priii< 
cipal something invariable sought for, and but seldom found, in the gen- 
eration of ' poets ' witli which this era of ours is so lavishly supplied. In 
the volume before us, however, this essential poetic quality is so strikingly 
manifest, that, in recognition of it, we must assign Mr. O'Reilly a very 
xiigh place among the few who, in our day, write readable and meritorious 
verse. But this is not the only feature in Mr. O'Reilly's muse worthy of 
remark; the vigor of his lines, the aptness of his similes, the effectiveness 
of his climaxes, — all testify to the existence in the author of that true 
poetic disposition, which is ever inborn, and never acquired. To those 
who may be sceptical of our judgment, we say, read the ' Songs from 
the Southern Seas,* and realize the pleasure they are calculated to afford 
even the most critical." 

Detroit Post. 

"They are evidently not fictions, but faithful transcripts of his owu 
feelings; the imagery is not stolen or borrowed, but original." 

Hartford Courant. 

"The Tolume not only contains a great deal of vigorous and interesting 
poetry, but It gives excellent promise for the future." 

Albany Journal. 

" For wild adventure and thrilling experience they will compare with the 
most weird and exciting legends." 

Dublin Nation. 

" The narratives themselves are interesting; they have usually a tragic 
turn, and are worked out with no small degree of skill. . . . Some of the 
word-pictures of Australian scenery are exceedingly realistic and vivid. 
. . . Some of the minor poems in this book afford much better indications 
of the poetic capacities of the author; and the effect of the entire volume 
is to leatl us to believe that he has within him powers which will enable 
him to rise far above the mark to which he has here attained." 

Lawrence American. 

" There U a vein of fire and earnestness, a glow of enthusiasm, that can- 
not but attract to the writer, and win no slight admiration for his geniusj 
H.nd his countrymen will especially be pleased with the graceful volume." 



14 OPINIONS CF THE PRESS. 



Catholic Record of Philadelphia. 

" It haa seldom been our good fortune to discover a rolume of verges in 
which the realistic and poetic elements were so powerfully and iibly com- 
bined. Mr. O'Reilly selects his themes from among scenes and characters 
which would naturally be supposed to be the least congenial to the muse 
of song, for Erato is not usually considered at home among Nantucket tars 
on New Bedford whaling-ships, in Australian penal colonies, or tlie after- 
dark pranks of shameless youngsters. The luxurious arcades and flower- 
ing groves of the tropics may, indeed, be for a time her abode, and she 
may not disdain to occasionally bathe in the sparkling waters of sunny 
Southern seas, but we will stake our character for penetration on the as- 
sertion that Mr. O'Reilly is a handsome Irishman from the vicinity of Blar- 
ney Castle, for he has so completely fascinated her that she follows him 
with her most favoring smiles wherever or whenever he bids her presence. 
She is beside him in the murderer's secluded shelter; she rides with him on the 
storm-winds that whistle around the Horn; she sits beside him in the agoniz- 
ing cruise when the wounded amber whale drags his boat through tb e mighty 
Southern spray; she perches on an oil barpel on New Bedford's wharves, 
or peeps with him through the windows of a New-England meeting-hoi/se. 
Wherever he lists, she leta him sii^g, — slug the tenderest of soagB, ^ <*.« 
mauliest of tones." 



MOONDYNE: 

A. 3rro:Eijir iFi^onyc the unsriDEis.-'woie/Xii^. 

BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
Pilot Publishing Co., Boston. Post-free for 81.50. 



OPINIONS OF THE PKESS. 



From the New York Sun. 

"Regarded merely with a view to its artistic merits, this is a narrative 
which no lover of novels should neglect to read. Whether we look to the 
strange and impressive nature of the scenery portrayed, and the abnormal 
conditions of life studied — to the noveity of incident and the skilful con- 
struction of plot, or to the vigorous strokes by which the persons of the 
tale are made to stand forth from the canvas — we cannot fail to recognize 
in this work a strong and captivating performance. . . . We do not know 
whether the author, as a matter of fact, has visited the penal colony in West 
Australia, or has made a study of British prisons, but certainly his account 
of convict life under these diverse conditions bears the marks of authen- 
ticity. What is more to our immediate purpose, his analysis of the princi- 
ples which lie at the roots of the systems of confinement and transportation, 
is profound and fruitful, and his practical suggestions, enforced, as they are, 
by the experience of penal settlements, where, after a ceitain period of 
probation, the outlaws and the victims of a highly-organized society are 
suffered to begin life anew, deserve to be closely scanned and maturely 
pondered. . . . Such are some of the problems forced upon the reader's 
attention by this remarkable book, but which are rather hinted than ex- 
pounded — not so much dissected by argument as commended to our sympa- 
thie3 by the poignant spectacle of suffering and the winning accent of 
conviction. The author seldom overlooks the limitations of his artistic 
purpose, and the thread of his story may be followed with eagerness by 
Iho&e who would hear with indifference the teaching of the student and the 
phiianthropiet." 



iCv OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



From the Chicago Times. 

" 3foondyne is remarkable in more respects than one. It has plot enon?h 
for flaif-a-dozen strong romances; it is written with ciispness and sim.- 
plicity, and in pure and nervous English ; its morality is orthodox ; its scene 
and characters are wholly novel and unique, and the interest is keenly — 
even painfuliy — sustained, . . . and no one can read Jloondyne without 
ioving virtue more, pitying distress, abhorring injustice, and detesting vice. 
It is one of the few American novels which, while intensely romantic, is 
lolty in its aim, eloquent a"d noble in its argument, and healthy and refining 
in its effect. It is characterized throughout by the highest dramatic intuition, 
and ought to find its way speedily to the boards." 

From the Nevj Orleans Morning Star and Catholic Visitor. 

" This fine novel is really a treat, refined in diction, high-toned in senti- 
ment, and instructive in details. There is no religious controversy in its 
pages, no tedious theological arguments in the fabric of its story, but the 
whole book affords its readers onlj' pleasure and profit. The spirit which 
animates the work is that of philanthropy, and the dedication, 'To all 
who are in prison, for whatever cause,' gives the clew to the object of the 
writer. The characters are well drawn, although we think the hero is over- 
diawn — that is, he is too perfect — but as a model to youth, the exemplar 
must be, as far as possible, faultless. The interest of the story is splendidly 
sustained, and the life of ' Moondjne ' is thrilling, grand, and beautiful. The 
lessons conveyed are very noble, and we think this expression in the mouth 
of Mr. Wyville, under the attendant circumstances, is the one grand lesson 
of the book, ' Authority must neve?' forget humanity.' "We would like to 
quote several passages from the book, which for strength and pathos 
approach very near to the sublime — but we can only name the many 
striking points, and leave to the reader the pleasure of reading them in 
full." 

From the Boston Daily Advertiser. 

"Mr. O'Reilly has made a wonderful story of the convict-labor in Aus- 
tralia. The whole tale is on as magnificent a scale as Dumas' Monte Crista, 
and more lofty in aim and sentiment. The vast natural wealth and bewil- 
dering beauty of the countrj-, are made the more setting for a group Of men, 
v^ho answer every demand of heroism, and for two sweet women. The 
^M'am is as bad as the heroes are good; through the whole book the interest 
r.ever flags, the enthusiasm never cools, the intense dramatic and emotional 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 1 7 

power never breaks. "With the same glowing ardor the eloquent author 
tells of superhuman courage, hair-breadth escapes, experiences in the bush, 
and in the convict-gangs, discusses the jjenal code of Australia, the respon- 
sibility of Eng and, the abstract principles of liberty and the rights of man, 
tlie origin of crime and the deepest and most tender love of man and 
woman. The rapid and high-wrought fiction of the story is enhanced by 
the rush and color of the style and the air of reality that is given to the 
most romantic incidents and to the wildest horrors. Moondyne^ the title of 
the book, means something more than manly or kingly, and although it is 
applied especially to the chief god-Uke hero, it belongs properly to the 
whole group of men who are represented as lifting Australia from sin and 
darkness into virtue and glory by the greatness of their own souls, the 
strength of their own wills, and their own passion of unselfishness. And 
all through this gorgeous fabric runs the thread of faith in man, faith in the 
root of good to be found even in the worst of convicts, and in the law of 
kindness and encouragement, to replace in all penal colonies the law of 
force. Mr. O'Reilly dedicates his book 'to all who are in prison for what- 
ever cause.' And prisoners never had a more gallant and chivalrous 
champion." 

From the Wommi's Journal. 

"This book is no ordinary romance. It is the work of a man of genius, 
who writes a descriptive story, largely based upon his own observation and 
experience, colored by his own feelings, and reflecting his own opinions, 
aspirations, and prejudices. It could only have been written by John Boyle 
O'Reilly, a genuine poet and philanthropist, but also an American Catholic 
Irishman, an escaped Australian convict, exiled by the Biutish Government 
for his participation in the Fenian insurrection. From such a man, with 
such an experience, it would be unfair to expect an exact picture of English 
or Australian life; but it is natural to expect a graphic transcript of an 
exceptional experience, all the more valuable because exceptional, all the 
more vivid because a record of scenes of which he has been an eye-witness. 
Australian scenery is reproduced with a vvealth of word-painting which 
few living writers could equal. The horrible life of a penal colony is por- 
trayed with admirable distinctness. The national and re'.igious feelings of 
the writer are carefully kept in the background, and there is an evident 
intention of fairness all through the book." 

From the Boston Traveller. 

"Mr. O'Reilly has produced a strong and vigorous romance, in Ptrikmg 
contrast with the namby-pamby literature of late offered to the public :■« 



1 8 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



exemplars of 'the great American novel.' The character of 'Moondyne' 
is among the noblest ever conceived by any novelist, and he -who cannot 
read this story -without attaining to a loftier inspiration toward a nobler life, 
•who cannot sympathize with the sorrows of the sinning and down-trodden, 
•who cannot lay it aside with a resolution to make his own life more useful 
and better, — such an one must be blind indeed. The author's style is not 
among the least attractive features of the book. Strong, yet graceful, with 
a certain verve which is delightfully invigorating, whether in giving those 
inimitable character sketches which mark the volume in question, or ia 
d<'picting to the mind of the reader the wildness and beauty of Australian 
scenery, Mr. O'Reilly is equally at home. We trust that Moondyne will 
not be the last novel from his pen." 



From the London Bookseller. 

" A powerful and fascinating tale, illustrating different systems of treat- 
ment adopted towards criminal convicts. The story belongs to the time 
when "VTestern Australia was a penal settlement, governed by laws of Dia- 
conic severity. The regulations of our prisons at home were far from 
satisfactory, as was proved by their frequent changes, none of which long 
recommended themselves to practical men. Like Jean Valjean in Victor 
Hugo's story, the hero of the tale under notice was a convict, who, by a 
turn of the wheel, rose to a position of trust, and distinguished himself as a 
philanthropist, and a reformer of the present system. No one who begins 
the story will be able to stop till it is finished." 



From the Worcester Spy. 

"This is a novel of harrowing and exciting description, brilliantly written, 
but almost too painful to allow enjoyment in the reading." 



From the Boston Journal. 

"There is power in the book, and pathos, and passion of a noble sort; 
and there is an abundance of excitir.g incidents and some bits of stirring 
and graphic description. The most jaded novel reader will find that there 
is something more than commonly fresh and inspiring about the storj*. If 
there are some faults of construction, and a little lack of symmetry, these 
are more than atoned for by the virile strength and intensity which hold the 
reader to the end." 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. U, 

From the New York Graphic. 

••This brilliant and picturesque fiction obtained, as it deeerTed, an imroe- 
diate recognition of its power and originalitj', and added greatly to the 
already enviable reputation of its versatile and gifted author. In the form 
in which it now appears, with its large, clear type and its attractive pages, 
it will increase its circle of readers, and consequently its popularity. The 
book is one that arajjly rewards the reading, not only for the fire and vigor 
of its style, but for the dramatic interest and the unconventionality of its 
plot." 

From the Boston Uerald. 

"Asa novel, we cannot but regret that the ending is so tragic, but we do 
not regard this volume as simply a novel. From beginning to end it is a 
satire upon British institutions, and we have seen nothing to surpass it 
Bince Bulwer's novel of Paul Clifford, where, under the guise of a love 
story, the author demonstrated that the prison system of England was an 
encouragement to crime, and that '* the worst use you could put a man to 
was to hang him." Mr. O'Reilly's book has been favorably noticed in most 
of the leading journals of the country, but the Catholic newspapers criticise 
it very sharply, although they profess great respect for the author, and to 
love him sincerely. Mr. O'Reilly is not only a man of talent, but one of 
real genius. He is in the prime of life, and is abundantly able to take care 
of himself. He has written some of the best lyric poetry in the language, 
and although his first novel is not faultless, he has no occasion to be dis- 
turbed by any of the flies, gnats, or other dipterous insects which buzz about 
him." 

From the Boston Post. 

"Its originality is a special charm. It is full of manliness and viiile 
power, and yet abounding in gentleness and pathos." 



From the London Saturday Review. 
" Moondyne is a really clever and graphic story of Australian life." 

From the Golden Rule. 

" The story is powerfully written. There is little scenic description, but; 
Mr. O'Reilly shows a keen analysis of motives and character, and there le 
an imaginative glow and color suffused through the book which oniy tee 



20 OPINION? z>F THE PRESS. 



poet could impart. The book is entirely without a harlequin. There is less 
wit than the American reader might expect ; but the interest of the story 
never flags, and we feel that It was omitted, not because the writer could 
not command it, but because he had a greater joy and confidence in the 
higher and more serious ijurposes of his book." 



Ft-'y^^i the Irish World. 

*' As an insight into the political and natural history of Australia alone, it 
is one of the most valuable books written for years past; there is so little 
known of that strange land of «ongles8 birds, scentless flowers, and fruit- 
less trees so wonderfully described in Mr. O'Reilly's Australian poems. 
' Moondyne,' the hero of the tale, reminds one of Victor Hugo's Jean Val- 
jean. Body and soul ground to the dust in penal servitude for little or no 
crime, his grand, rough nature comes out of it unscathed by its degrading 
influences, and even elevated to more than human strength and beauty as he 
lays aside all thoughts of his own welfare, and devotes himself to the 
reform of the penal colony, and the amelioration of the awful slavery of 
his fellow-men." 

From the Cambridge Tribune. 

•• We think the book superior to Charles Reade's book with the same 
object, that of calling attention to the wrongs inflicted upon convicts, and 
as a work of fiction it impresses one more agreeably than that." 



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